


How to Survive a Hurricane

by Scavengersdaughter2



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Canon-Typical Violence, Crime Lord! Stiles, Drug Use, Everyone Has Issues, M/M, Mafia AU, Minor Character Death, Mythology - Freeform, Non-Human Stiles Stilinski, Organized Crime, PTSD, Pack Dynamics, Panic Attacks, Resolved Sexual Tension, Supernatural Elements, Supernatural is Known AU, Underage Drinking, bodyguard! Derek, canon can suck it, everyone is a BAMF, lots of sexy stuff, magic! stiles, mate, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-07-13 17:43:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 128,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16022816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scavengersdaughter2/pseuds/Scavengersdaughter2
Summary: John Stilinski, head of the largest crime syndicate in The States, has passed away.  Hale Security is tasked with protecting his successor, John's only son. The syndicate is in chaos. The other head bosses are restless and unsatisfied. The underworld demands more blood.Also featuring oddly protective bees, sensitive crime lords, a team of wolves who are grossly underpaid for the shit they have to put up with, a Druid godfather who is Having None of This, and two oblivious, damaged idiots in love.In which there are supernatural shenanigans, a crime syndicate, and the race for succession.





	1. September

[Nine years ago, Beacon Hills]

 

The sky was grey.

The sight of it made Claudia nervous. She had the swirlings of doubt in her stomach. The air was eerily still. Like the minutes leading up to a hurricane. Calm. Unmoving. Dark.

She held Stiles' little hand tighter, walking along the pavement. He was babbling, like seven year olds often did. He was talking about a dog he’d seen the previous day. A big cloud of white fur. He was remarking on the flowers they passed. On the trees.

That's when she noticed the black panel van. Something didn’t sit right with her. The trees whispered their warnings.   
They didn't trust it either. Told her of the ill tidings it could bring.

She walked faster, pulling his little hand closer.   
The van was still following close behind. Rolling on the road just behind them. Stiles was oblivious. Why should he have anything to fear? He was with his mom; safe, and happy.

But the moment to heed the warnings of the spirits had passed as metal slid against metal and the door opened.

The sky was grey when the gun shots started.

She pulled him into her body, falling to the ground.   
The air rang with the heaviness and ringing of lightning. Over the deafness, she could feel the van taking off. See it speeding away in her peripheral.  
The pain subsided as she felt the flesh of her stomach knit back together again. She opened her eyes, feeling the wetness of her blood stain both of their bodies.  
But it wasn't only her blood.

She touched his face. The smooth skin of preadolescence. His eyes were open wide, staring at her. His chest wasn't moving. His heart beat like footsteps fleeing into silence.

She screamed his name, his true name. The name whispered among the trees and riding on the wind and the backs of bumble bees. She held his body, sobbing, clinging to the fading warmth. Tears raced down her face without abandon. 

This wasn't his end. It couldn't be.

She tucked his body closer to hers as she veered from the sidewalk, their blood mixing and drying. Up the grassy hill and into the forest. Each step a grain of sand falling into the bottom of an hour glass.

The forest was just beginning to go into sleep for the upcoming winter. Leaves changing colors as she walked through. A single destination in her mind. A final destination.

What a beautiful final resting place. Surrounded by so much life. Her sisters had long since perished. She was the last one. No-  
She looked to Stiles.  
He would be the last one. Her life had been long and full.

His had only just begun.

His body was cradled by the strong roots. She kissed his pale eyelids and petted his soft cheeks.  
Her tree was weeping. Her tree knew it was the end.

She ran her hand along the thick trunk, the bark rough under her palm. It would be the last time she'd ever touch her tree. The branches would fall until only the trunk remained. Until lightning struck and the trunk was no more, leaving nothing than a stump with deep roots.

Lightning bugs danced around her. Singing their mournful song, for they knew it was the end. The whole forest knew. It breathed in time with her. Trembling at the thought of her absence.

The sweet song of the birds, the deer trekking lightly through the underbrush. Flowers blooming, bees humming in their work. She would die among them all, with a smile on her face. Knowing that her son would live in a world with so much beauty.

She kissed his forehead.  
"I love you," she whispered to unhearing ears. 

The sky was grey. And when Claudia Stilinski breathed her last, the rain fell. The mournful tears of the old spirits as they lost another daughter.

 

 

 

[Present day, Albany, New York]

 

"We’re coming up on almost forty years since the Great Razing; the first tragic event that allowed humans and mutants to coexist in society. Today, it’s all about mutant versus mundane politics. Here to discuss interspecies relationships and other human versus mutant controversies, we have Garrison Meyers, a central figure in the humanist party," the news anchor introduced. Her black hair moved as she spoke, bouncing in curled ringlets just above her shoulders.

Her guest was a basic, brown haired white guy in his mid to late forties. “Thank you for having me.”

29, 30, 31-   
The sound of Derek's panting was joined by the tv. He was only half paying attention, more focused on his pushups. Derek's eye caught the stream of images, slowing down in his workout to take it all in.

The scene was taken in a predominantly mutant neighborhood. Homeless supernatural lined the streets. Alleys with huddled masses. There was a clip of needles atop a pile of burnt foil and pills. Skinny teenaged girls on a corner, one with light red skin and bright orange hair, the other with thick fur covering her back, teeth like a wild boar's.

"Now, a lot of people think humanists are speciest, anti-mutant humans. What do you say to that? Do you truly believe we humans are the superior beings?" She asked, leaning forward with hands clasped.

57,58,59-   
Flashes of a muttie prison. Clawed hands holding onto bars, blue eyes shining in the darkness.   
Undercover footage of a mundane only strip club, admitting a green, scale-skinned person in through the back doors. A bribe being placed in the club bouncer's hand. A child no more than six, with one striking violet eye holding the hand of a shifted chimera. Coyote and hyena, if Derek had to guess.

The man, Garrison, adjusted in his seat. "Now, superior wouldn't be a word I'd use. Maybe 'original' or 'intended'. Most mutants were created from ill means. Diseases, random cell mutations, spells, herbs, potions, infections, magic- Humans are the way nature intended. Mutants are a mistake. And it's our job, as the originators of existence, to keep the peace. Humanists are not anti-mutant. But we’re certainly not pro, either.

“’We lived in a world apart but are now brought together. Brothers and sisters, birds of a feather’, as they say,” the news anchor recited, trying to maintain a neutral kind of journalistic integrity and failing. "And what do you have to say about the recent social reforms for mutants?"

“Just think, before the 1700s when they walked the earth freely- it was complete chaos. And we, as humans, did what we had to do to survive. We took action- and the time to take action again is approaching. Think about how many second, third generations we’re seeing. And did you know Class C mutants are the highest demographic involved in organized crime? These classes of Monsters need a leash, not government help-” 

Derek sat up and reached for the remote.   
Enough of that.

He stood, picking up and drinking from his water bottle. He walked to the metal stairs of the loft for a quick shower. Peter would be back soon.

He changed into dark jeans and a sweater before walking back down to the main living area, just as he heard approaching voices. 

 

Peter didn’t bother knocking as he slid open the thick, metal door. A stranger trailed behind him.   
Derek said nothing, instead waited for an introduction.

Peter squinted his eye’s a moment at Derek’s complete lack of manners before turning to the man beside him. "This is my nephew, Derek," he introduced.

“Hello, Derek,” the stranger said, sticking out his hand, which went unshook.

Seeing through the eyes of his wolf, the stranger’s aura was hidden. Shielded. As hazy and unreliable as his ability was, Derek knew it wasn’t accidental that the aura was completely shaded. The only thing that gave Derek any indication of the man’s mutation, because he wasn’t human, was his scent. Under the smell of dog shampoo, medicine, and the clean, sterile of a doctor’s office…  
He smelled like the earth. Like graveyard dirt.  
Derek’s mind jumped to the Old World- this man was from it.

The wolf coiled in his chest. The Old Ones were the most dangerous.

Peter cleared his throat and the man had since lowered his hand. “Derek, this is Deaton. An old family friend.” They'd probably met a long time ago but his mom and dad used to have so many family friends that it was hard to remember each one. 

Derek nodded once to Deaton before his uncle continued talking. “Why don’t you come in so we can properly get acquainted?”

Deaton held a briefcase as he, Derek, and Peter walked to the table at the far end of the loft.

Derek broke his silence. "What brings you here?" The briefcase told him enough, but he asked anyway.  
"This is about that job I mentioned to you earlier," Peter answered.

It’d been over the phone. Some big boss was in a coma. "About the crime boss?" Derek asked to confirm. Peter mentioned trivial things all the time so keeping them straight was difficult.

It was Deaton who answered him. "Yes. John Stilinski and- " A hesitance, then, “And his company, as well as his- Well, the syndicate he was the head of, Tantum. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

Of course he had, even though what was infamous in the supernatural crime circles did not overlap with the human circles Derek worked in. But Tantum was a kind of infamous that everyone, regardless of species, knew of. Derek nodded. “I’ve heard of it.”

"Good. That'll make this easier," Deaton said.  
Peter leaned against the table, arms crossed. "If was a surprise to hear about John. I'd met him when he was still a cop in Beacon Hills. Didn't think he had it in him to go dark-"

Derek felt like he was missing something. A connection. "John Stilinski. The sheriff from Beacon Hills. He’s the head boss we’re talking about?”

“You mean to tell me you didn’t know of John Stilinski… and yet you work in the same circles? Albeit in the mundane circles but crime circles nonetheless,” Deaton commented. 

In the mundane criminal underground, John and his syndicate were something of a legend- like the boogeyman. And Derek had never gone back to Beacon Hills- even during Laura’s ‘recruitment missions’ of the betas. Everything with the sheriff and that night were buried.   
But the kind sheriff and the supposed boogeyman had been the same person all along.

Instead of admitting to the massive, years-long misunderstanding on his part, Derek instead said, “Our circles are very different.” Which was the partial truth.

"Do keep up, Derek. We've heard the name a thousand times since coming here," Peter said, a tone in his voice that had Derek’s wolf sitting up and letting out a single growl.  
"I didn't realize John Stilinski the Beacon Hills Sheriff was John Stilinski the Biggest Crime Boss in New York," Derek said evenly.  
Deaton nodded, either ignoring the tension between the two Hales or completely oblivious to it. Derek hazarded a guess at the former. "It was quite a jump. And the death of his wife certainly spurred it.”  
Derek didn't know the sheriff's wife had died. She was a tall, willowy woman, if she was indeed the woman he was thinking about. He vaguely recalled Talia and her meeting briefly over the years. Claudia, was it?  
“But his business in this world is done. I'm here on the behalf of his son."  
“He’s dead?” Derek asked. Immediately regretting his lack of tact as Deaton’s scent shifted to grief. It must’ve been fresh. Peter turned bodily towards him, angry.  
“Yes. Two days ago.”

Peter exhaled and clapped his hands together. "Well, I'll let you two talk it out.” He proceeded to nod to Deaton and walk out of the loft.   
He didn’t like to meet clients with Derek there, said it had something to do with Derek’s complete lack of social skills that threw him off his game.

After the door rolled shut, Deaton spoke. "It really is a pleasure to meet you again. Though I'm sure you don't remember me." He held out his hand again.   
This time, Derek shook it. "My mom always had a lot of friends."  
"That she did. And do forgive me, but I have a few questions to ask, just to be sure you're the right one for the job."  
Derek nodded, moving to take a seat at the large, leather couch. "All right."

Deaton joined him at the other end, setting his briefcase on the coffee table.

“This is a big job, I know that much. And you don’t know us. Not like you did,” Derek said. He’d inquire about their history, that was unknown to him, later. But at that moment, they were strangers. And Deaton had no reason to trust him.  
“You mean, I don’t know you.” Deaton was quiet a moment, his eyes watching. Appraising and observant. “You have a tan, no doubt from your time in Mexico. Also an increase in muscle mass, if I’m not mistaken. Your clothes don’t fit the same way anymore, do they?”  
Derek said nothing.  
“That would be the power of the alpha, physically changing you.” He paused. “And Peter, your beta, doesn’t talk to his alpha the way he should. And I presume the rest of your pack is much the same.”  
Peter needed to learn to keep his mouth shut when it came to complaining about him and the team-  
“And no, Peter didn’t tell me, if that’s what you were thinking. I just knew from your interaction with him. Though, after our meeting, I’m sure Peter will have much to say on that topic,” Deaton explained.   
Could he be a telepath? No, they were too rare. Even rarer than whatever Old World thing Deaton was. Derek resisted scoffing as he said, “Count on it.”  
Deaton’s resulting smile had a distinct lack of actual amusement, rather something akin to relief. “You have a sense of humor- that’s good, you’ll need it.”  
He wanted to say he didn’t, not really. But that was pushing the boundaries of professionalism. He might not have been good at that anyway, it was always Laura’s forte, but he could at least try. Being in the mountains, estranged from the pack and his humanity, hadn’t helped. “For what?” Derek asked, instead.   
Deaton took a breath in. “Your family is old pureblood. You’ve been protectors, and when it was needed of you, fighters in the bloody wars- for the sake of mutants.” He took a breath. “It is once again time to protect mutants- one in particular.”  
“A mutant,” Derek repeated.  
“I know it’s against your creed to delve into the affairs of the mutant underworld, but please make an exception. Your ancestors were fierce when they fought in the Razing-”  
“That was a long time ago,” Derek interrupted, not wanting to hear about the conquests of his family. He’d heard it a hundred times.  
Deaton nodded. “Yes, it was. And it was also for the protection of mutants.” He leaned back. “And you don’t have any contracts right now, anyway.”

He could tell, in Deaton’s body and his grandiose language, that Derek was his last hope. 

Changing tactics, Deaton asked, "If I'm not mistaken, John, as well as his wife, Claudia, were still alive in Beacon Hills when the fire happened. Did you know him...?"  
Derek nodded. "He was still sheriff at the time. But I only met him the once. I hadn't connected the names until now." What Derek didn't mention was the memory he had of the cute little kid who tried to comfort him that awful day. The sheriff's son, he'd been told later on.

“John kept up with your and Laura’s career. He was always wondering how the two orphans from his home town were progressing professionally. He was the one to give your new pack papers, after Peter came to me. John had been happy to help expand the Hale pack.”   
Derek was going to have a long discussion with Peter on withholding information from him. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

Deaton nodded to himself, a far away look in his eyes. "A lot changes in ten year, as I'm sure you know. When John passed on, he also passed succession to his son. I'm his god father and legal guardian. And all that he has left.” 

Derek hadn’t found the news necessarily shocking or upsetting. Those in the life of crime usually had low life expectancies. Derek did feel regret, however, for not at least contacting John after the fire. Maybe a thank you, for being exactly what fifteen year old Derek needed. "What happened to him? To John?"

Deaton’s brow furrowed and for a moment, he said nothing. Stared at Derek like he’d asked what the first letter of the alphabet was. When he finally spoke, he did so slowly. Carefully. "You're in a private security company and you haven't heard...?"  
Apparently, Peter only gossiped to prospective clients on the unnecessary details. "Mexico had us cut off from all communication.” There was no cell reception in the desert. Or the mountains. And that was the least of it.  
"Of course. You’ve only just returned.” Deaton stared at his hands. “Three months ago, Stiles was taken and held captive by an unknown party. We believe they meant to get to John. They held him for three days, using physical methods to ascertain what he knew about certain movements in our group and syndicate as a whole."  
"He was tortured," Derek affirmed succinctly.  
Too blunt, once again. Deaton’s breathing changed. "Yes. After realizing he either couldn't tell them or wouldn't tell them, they contacted John for ransom. He complied. John and I went to drop off the money when they pulled guns. He shot both of them but not before they shot him, putting him into a coma that finally took him two days ago."   
“If they meant to kill him from the beginning, it wasn’t just about money. What did they want from Stiles?”  
"We’re handling this internally.”   
Which meant Deaton was fully aware. Derek put his line of questioning on hold.  
Deaton clasped his hands. “Stiles came back relatively alive the last time, three months ago. There is no such guarantee if it happens again. And this cannot happen again. This is where you and your pack come in. It's September and his 18th birthday is March 15th. I need you to make sure he stays alive until then." 

"What's the significance of his eighteenth birthday? Why is he in more danger for the next six months, as opposed to the regular danger associated with this life?"

Derek knew the game Deaton played, had seen it happen a hundred times for prospective clients. Create intrigue, get Derek to bite. An element of intrigue was a great motivator. But not to Derek, not on a contract like this.   
Deaton thought Derek was taking the bait. "Because when he turns eighteen, he'll become the head of the entire syndicate. Not that he wants to succeed. But that's when it'll be official."   
There was no fluctuation in his heart beat. There hadn’t been the entire meeting. So either Deaton wasn’t lying, or was simply omitting information.   
Derek continued to prod, the same way Deaton had been prodding him. "Why can't he just quit? And appoint someone else, right now. So none of you have to deal with this, considering he doesn't even want to succeed."   
"It's never that simple. There's a code. John, as a formality, appointed him as successor, figuring that by the time he stepped down, Stiles would be well past eighteen. The rules of succession dictate that one has to actually be the boss before they can step down and appoint someone else. But to be the boss, you have to be eighteen." 

Derek was trying to get back into the swing of how those of the underworld operated, with deceit and pointless convolution. "Sounds unnecessarily complicated." 

Deaton, with a humorless half-smile and tired tone, said, "You're telling me. And the other muscle I've hired has been- terminated prematurely in one way or another. Ten bodyguards over a period of three months."   
Contemplation, then: "And you're hiring Hale security because you think we'll be different?"   
A nod. "Yes. The Hales and I have a long history together. I was Talia’s emissary, once upon a time.”

And that-  
Derek hadn’t known that.

Something in Derek’s face gave away his ignorance. Deaton said, “Ah. You weren’t aware. I’m not surprised, it was before you were born, when Talia herself had just become alpha. But know this, I trust in the power of your family. And you are the alpha now. Though I was sorry to hear about Laura. She was a very strong woman."   
Derek didn't say anything. Didn’t want to talk about her. Didn’t want to talk about the past, Deaton being an ex-emissary didn’t change that. Then, “Why don’t you hire someone in your own group?”  
Deaton’s face betrayed the frustration from what was no doubt previous conversations on the subject. “Stiles is against it, after one of this first bodyguards was- well.” Derek understood. They wouldn’t be having this meeting in the first place, had his other bodyguards not failed. “And for other reasons I’m sure you can assume.”  
Derek could. The ability to remain objective was only possible with a stranger. And there was always the risk of being killed on the job and the ability for the client to be aware of and accept that possibility. 

“The last three months have been…eventful.” Deaton opened his briefcase and slid out a folder. He turned to Derek and handed him the file.

Derek flipped through the folder, looked at photos.  
“I want you to know the risk,” Deaton said, as Derek read about Stiles’ previous security.  
Dead by bombing. Shot. Shot. Disappearance, presumed dead. Abducted, presumed dead. There were more.   
“Knowing the risk involved, would you still take the contract?”  
Derek was silent as he finished skimming the file. Deaton’s words were said as a challenge. He was pulling out the stops, he must’ve been really desperate for Hale Security to protect his godson.   
“If anything else, it would provide you with a goal. A distraction. Or a challenge. Something I’m sure you’re in need of.”  
Deaton was a master manipulator. 

Derek tried to imagine the face his mother would make at him considering breaking the rule that had been in their family for generations. Or what Laura would do to him, if he made the exception. Feeling an almost divine rush of stupid bravery and irrational rebellion, Derek asked: “What Class is he?”  
“A,” Deaton said. And his heartbeat didn’t waver. Which didn’t mean anything.

At least he’d be breaking the ban on supernatural clients with the most ‘harmless’ Class.

Something in Deaton changed. He sensed the glimmer of Derek’s willingness. “Tell me about your pack,” he asked. Though he no doubt had heard enough about them from Peter.   
"Each member has a specific skill set that is valuable to the team. But if I can help it, especially publicly, it will be myself and the client." 

When you had a group of people bumbling around another person, things could get sloppy. Coordination was hard, even among a pack of wolves, which was why Derek, previously Laura, would be the ‘head’ bodyguard, who made the most appearances, while the rest handled the behind the scenes work. And a group of suits standing around was a lot more suspicious than just one. The rest of the pack usually kept a distance.

Deaton nodded, straightening papers in his briefcase. "That’s for the best. In this line of business, people are slow to trust. And a bodyguard must be trust worthy. You will be privy to secrets and the boss' innermost thoughts. You will witness things you cannot speak of. A fly on the wall to the most secretive transactions and meetings." 

"What do you do, in the business?" Derek asked, filing away the dead security teams for later. Derek needed to know more about his employer, besides what he was deliberately portraying. He handed the file back to Deaton, who placed it back into his briefcase.  
“I wear many hats. And my involvement is not important right now, you’ll learn enough about me later.”  
And that was a typical mob answer. “That may be the case, but for now, I still need to know something about your title. I still haven’t accepted the contract yet.”  
He seemed pleased that Derek was pressing for information. Not backing down. "My day job is a vet's clinic. I also run a clinic for those who can't go to hospital, for whatever reason. But truthfully, I was John's emissary, of a kind. As well as Stiles’ godfather and legal guardian. And now Stiles is my responsibility. I need protection for him. And I will also need updates. On his physical and mental wellbeing. Report everything. I need to know how he's doing," Deaton said, too nonchalantly.   
"You want me to spy on him for you." That was a confidentiality issue, but it was kind of a grey area because Stiles was a minor and Deaton was his legal guardian.  
"It's not like that."  
"Oh, so spying is different than reporting to you his mood and day to day actions, normal or not. Without his knowledge."  
"Derek, he's complicated. He keeps his problems to himself, so not to worry anyone. Which does the opposite. You'll be with him every day, living with him. Watching him at all times. I just want to know he's OK. And not just with the syndicate and the business.”  
Derek could fill in the blanks: kid spends the last three months watching his dad die, after being held captive and was now stuck with a crime empire, and the hitmen after him that went along with it.

The job sounded easy enough. But then again, with supernatural crime, something he had little experience in, it was unpredictable. His asset and client could be unpredictable, as teenagers often were.  
Deaton saw him working over the job in his mind. "If it's the pay you're worried about, don't be. Our group, and the syndicate as whole, is not a meager one." Deaton pulled a folded check from his dark jacket’s breast pocket. He slid it across the desk to Derek, who picked it up. He let nothing show on his face, though there were a lot of zeroes. “Occupational hazard gets double occupational pay.  
And that's just your pay for now, for gathering your people and the necessary resources. All expenses, hotels- any damages he causes, anything you need, will be paid for. And if you complete your contract, it's 17 million, divided between your team. And your team’s regular wages, as determined by the contract I already had Peter draw up.”  
Deaton pulled out the final paper. The physical contract.

Derek scribbled his name, feeling akin to a person signing their soul away to the devil. Which wasn't too far from the truth.   
"I do hope you are able to handle this," Deaton said amicably, despite the connotation.   
Derek took the paper, standing up, shoving it back into his pocket. Deaton stood with his briefcase, pulling out a piece of black, compact plastic from his pants pocket. It was a flash drive. He handed it to Derek.  
"What's this?"  
"Your assignment. Anything pertaining to Stiles and your job. That's all I can give you for now. Any other questions, about Tantum, or the rest of the syndicate, Stiles himself can tell you. You and your team would do well to remember everything on there." He turned to leave. "You have twenty four hours. After that, burn it."

Derek watched the door slide shut behind him.

 

The wolf huffed, airing his dislike. Derek was inclined to agree. After such a tragedy- such a failure in Mexico- to just go on and protect some yuppie kid?  
But it wasn’t just some mobster’s yuppie kid.  
And Derek knew it.

Six months. One person to protect. He definitely would've been able to do it before. But now that he was alpha-   
there was no guarantee. He knew that, Peter knew that. The pack knew that. 

He picked up his phone. "We have a job. Tell everyone to meet at the loft. It's a big one."

 

When he hung up, the wolf was standing there. Red eyes glowing, tail swishing.   
It’d been there since the power transfer,

He stuck out his hand in invitation. We’re slaves to each other- the least you could do is be civil. But the wolf just looked at his hand like it always did, then turned and sashayed away, tail swinging dangerously, ears downturned.

 

Living in New York was a loose term. Derek and the pack crashed at the loft when they weren't doing jobs, because no one had a family to go back to (except Jackson, but even his girlfriend was away in Paris). When they'd all gotten back from Mexico, they'd split for a break. And he was calling them back, only days later. Though he knew all of them got antsy when they weren’t on assignment.

The flash drive, as it turned out, was a compilation of medical reports, newspaper articles, receipts, business reports, recon reports from Deaton's own people, and candid photos- among other things that only scratched the surface of what Derek really needed. Especially when it came to employees and other mobsters working near Stiles. Coup d’état and assassinations usually happened with someone surrounding the person personally.  
Derek printed copies, intending to burn them after, as per Deaton's instructions.

“This our first muttie job,” Isaac said, stating the obvious. He and the others were reading the printouts.  
Erica tossed him another stack of names and photos. “It can’t be that different from working for the mundies.”  
“What’s his class?”  
Boyd answered, “A,” his eyes fixed to his laptop screen.  
“Oh- that’s easy, then.”   
It was true; him being anything other than A would have complicated things further. 

Isaac was shuffling through papers when he looked up and asked, “You think people will know us? At least as much as they know us in mundane crime circles?”  
This time, Jackson answered him. “Hopefully not.” 

Erica had moved on from the papers and was packing a wooden crate, worn with age and marked with glyphs. She called it their ‘magical utility chest’. As wolves, their magical abilities were limited. The crate they used was mainly for informative purposes, with back up species of wolfsbane in case one of them was shot with an enchanted bullet.

Isaac began packing the crate alongside Erica. The compartments were filled with first edition pocketbooks and vials. She pushed him off after minutes. “Go count the ammo.”

Boyd handled the tech. He had already prepped their earpieces and microphones. The security van was half packed up, almost ready to go. He worked fast.

Boyd sifted through a file folder of more copies that'd have to be burned later. "What's the housing situation looking like?"  
“Deaton’s on it. Until then-”  
“Hotel surfing?” Erica said.  
There were some groans. Derek didn't like it either. The smell of so many others made their wolves restless, the thin wall and endless sounds and distractions. But it was the only option.  
And Derek had to think about Stiles in this. He'd had to sell his home, his life, because of this.

Deaton had given them a comprehensive list of Stiles’ past working with private security, which was extensive.  
Stiles spent the majority of early his life and teenage years perfecting the art of ditching bodyguards, apparently. As John gained power, the varying degrees of security led stiles to have a knack for getting around them. They were usually under his father directly and then they started to hire outside of Tantum, especially recently which, in Derek's experience, was the standard case.

“That could be good? He’ll know procedure?” Isaac said hopefully.  
Derek just stared at him.  
“Right. He’ll know procedure.”

 

“If we finish the job, we’ll be making bank,” Erica said. Her eyes were practically the shape of dollar signs. She was squinting at the screen of her iPad. “Stiles and John were in Beacon Hills before New York?”   
“I’d met them there, before,” Derek mentioned offhandedly as he checked his gun clip.  
First silence, as they let it sink in. Then Jackson broke it. “Derek? And?”  
Derek looked at him. “And what?”  
“‘And’ our client just happens to be from the same town thousands of miles away, a fact you failed to mention, and we’re not going to talk about that? I mean, you guys have history.”  
“Don’t say it like that.”  
“How did you guys even meet? He’s so young,” Erica asked.  
To end their questioning, Derek said, “We met the night of the fire.”  
And that was that.

Until Isaac asked, “Wait, didn’t you mention during the briefing that Deaton used to be emissary? And that John’s group gave all of us our new papers?”  
Erica nodded. “Deaton and Peter obviously go way back. Friends, even. Though I didn’t think Peter had friends.”  
“We’re all from Beacon Hills, Derek. This is fate,” Isaac said.  
Derek scowled. “This isn’t about ‘fate’.” That was something his mother would’ve said. Things like ‘fate’ might have been important once upon a time, but not anymore. 

Isaac twirled the keys to the security van around his finger. Boyd was glaring. “It shows how disconnected we are from mutant crime. Because we’ve all heard the rumors of the mundane who went on a revenge quest and ended up heading the largest mutant crime syndicate. But we didn’t know, you know?”  
None of them had kept up with that, but apparently, Laura and Peter had.  
Maybe Derek should have too.

Derek didn’t feed into the surprise of his betas. Instead, he offered by way of explanation: “I’ve learned a lot in the last twenty four hours too.” The fact that his life was tied so closely to people he barely knew…he didn’t know what to make of it. And ‘fate’ was not the answer, either. “And don’t tell him we’re all from Beacon Hills.”  
“Do we get-”  
Derek cut Isaac off. “-To ask why? No.”  
That town, and all the memories in it, needed to stay dead.

"Fuck, we have to cover the funeral?" Jackson said, still reading through the dossiers. Though it seemed like Deaton would be the one taking care of the event, mostly. Derek would see to change that.  
"We'll only be making sure he doesn't get killed; think about what he'll be doing," Derek said, eyes scanning another copy of the funeral details.  
He caught the motion of Jackson nodding slowly, like he'd forgotten that nobody liked funerals. Especially the loved ones of the deceased.  
"We have time to prepare," Derek said.  
"Less than four days,” Boyd said.  
"We've had to do more with less."

Every mobster had a sad story- that’s just how it was. A happy, balanced person did not just decide to join a gang.   
But the betas needed to understand how John had helped them.  
And how John’s choices had shaped Stiles’ life.

“Do you remember the sheriff or his son? Or his wife?” Derek asked aloud.  
The betas looked between each other, eyebrows raised.   
“I heard of them but I was just a kid at the time too,” Erica said. 

“How old were you when the sheriff left? Even if you don’t remember exactly when it happened. Just guess.” Derek could see them doing the math in their heads as he was laying out the funeral plan, waiting for someone to answer.   
“Uhh- I’m 22 now, so twelve or thirteen, I think,” Isaac answered, completely not getting what Derek was trying to point out to them.   
“And what were you doing at that age?”  
“School? I don’t know. What kids do. Why?”  
Derek, counting ammo and refilling clips, casual as could be, answered, “Stiles was in the country’s largest syndicate at that time, already heir to his father’s empire. Been that way for a good four or five years by then. You were a kid at twelve, he was seen as a bargaining chip to rivals- you know how it is. Kids are the weak spot of any mobster.”  
That put it into perspective for them, even Jackson, as they all fell silent. 

 

The silence didn’t last long as they heard Peter’s footfalls outside the loft. Then the metal door slid open and the man himself appeared.

"Hello, children," he said condescendingly, walking up to the table strewn with documents, plans, and photos. Instructions, registers, layouts- anything they could get their hands on at this early stage of a high-level contract.

Derek exhaled. One thing he'd like about Mexico; the absence of Peter. "Give us the room."  
There was grumbling, sullen shuffling, and pissy glares followed by the sliding metal sound of the door.

When they were alone, Peter spoke. "This is the first job since Laura so don't fuck it up."  
"Why don't you do it, then? If you're so concerned?"  
"I'll be flying to Japan. Tonight. Fresh contract to help out some mundy mobsters there. And Deaton requested you, because you're closer in age to Stiles. Which he thought might make things easier," in a drier, more frustrated tone, he said: "Besides, you're the alpha of that band of misfits."

It wasn’t uncommon for Peter to take solo jobs (‘to get away from the idiot factory Laura made’).

"That's right; I'm the alpha."  
Peter gritted his teeth, face clearly not amused. "Well, Mr. Alpha, I did let Deaton know about your- well, we’ll call it your little issue."  
Derek was sifting through the papers, trying to look unaffected, like he didn't care that his temporary employer knew of his instability. Trying to keep his heartbeat even. "What'd he say?"  
Something in his uncle's face said that Peter knew anyway, despite Derek's cool appearance. "That he trusted you." Peter spared a look at the contents on the table before saying, "Who knows why?"

The wolf nipped at Peter’s ankles, snarling.  
Derek ignored it.

“We’re the last of the pureblood Hales, Derek. Make this work.”

Derek couldn’t care less. Let their bloodline die. Who the fuck cared. Legacy meant nothing when most of your pack was dead and buried.

“How are we supposed to save this kid? Just about every criminal faction, mutant and mundane, is gunning for him.”  
“It’s not about ‘saving’ him. It’s about doing your job.” Peter clapped a hand onto his shoulder. Derek kept his arms crossed, glower focused into the exposed brick of the loft. “This world doesn’t need a hero. It needs a professional.”

Derek refrained from shaking his head. “You knew. About John. John the sheriff being John the Undefeated,” he said it like it was an accusation. Because it was.  
“Well I thought that was quite obvious. But I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt because there are a lot of Polish people around here so ‘Stilinski’ isn’t all that unheard of.”  
Derek scowled. “You know what I meant.”  
“Oh, then did I know the man who comforted you on the night of our family’s biggest tragedy was the big bad crime lord that’s name popped up occasionally, who was shot three months ago and finally died? Then, yes. I did know. And if you hadn’t wasted so much time in Mexico, you would have known that too.”   
“Or how about the fact that he was the one who made the betas new papers after Laura turned them?” Derek asked.  
“Well John didn’t make them-”  
“Then people from John’s syndicate made them.”  
“I didn’t think it was necessary to spoon feed you every business interaction, or otherwise, to you. Before six months ago, you were below me.” The way Peter said it, with a disgusted curl of his lip, set Derek’s blood on fire. “It’s not my problem you’re ill-informed on what goes on behind the scenes here. Occasionally, there are more important things than a trigger being pulled.”

Perhaps it was out of obligation, but Derek did feel a flicker of something upon reflection of John’s death.   
Either from helping Derek, as the sheriff, or helping the betas, as a kingpin, but Derek felt a sense obligation to him. And now his son needed help.

Derek would help John in death, like he hadn’t been able to in life.  
And because Derek wasn’t done antagonizing his uncle, he said, “You should have mentioned the old pack emissary was involved with the Beacon Hills’ ex-sheriff. And that his syndicate has had ties with us, without my knowledge.”  
“It is a small world, after all,” was all Peter had to comment.

Talia had been popular. She herself had been a little girl during the Razing. And she had old and varied friends. Like Deaton, whatever he was. Something from the Old World. Derek knew when someone was old. It was something in their smell. Like an untouched, new looking book that carried the smell of dust. It was something in the way they moved, the way they carried themselves. And Deaton was no different.

Deaton had been the old Hale pack emissary before Derek was born, though he still must’ve kept in contact and stayed in Beacon Hills, in order for him and John to know each other. But what still threw Derek was the correspondence John and Deaton had had with Laura and Peter. He was a grown man, still feeling like a child being kept in the dark by their parents.

 

Derek didn’t get a lot of sleep that night. He usually didn’t, the night before a contract. He spent time packing, pacing, and re-reading everything Deaton had given them about the contract.

It was something like anticipation and the excitement to have a new purpose that set his nerves on edge.   
But this time was different. Not just because of the ‘mutant’ nature of the contract, but because Stiles was someone from the past. The Stilinski’s were tied to Derek’s life in a way he hadn’t exactly gotten the scope of- until the last 24 hours. And Derek didn’t know how to feel about it. 

 

Derek got up that morning, ready to leave his life for another one.

 

Derek’s ear piece felt alien to him, and the microphone clipped onto his sleeve seemed heavier than he remembered. His suit also felt foreign and uncomfortable. In Mexico, there hadn’t been a reason to put a suit on. 

The plan was to drive separately to Tantum and the others secure a hotel. Until Deaton called and changed that, as they were preparing to hit the road.  
“I want everyone here for an introduction. Then you can get the hotel situated.”  
It wasn’t ideal but they could adapt.

"We're meeting Deaton at the main group's headquarters. Tantum Enterprises. Boyd and Erica, follow me in the security van. Jackson and Isaac, you're in the Escalade.” He checked his watch. “It's going to be a long ride."

 

They hadn’t been in Manhattan in at least a year and a half. Maybe even two.

 

They crossed the Queens bridge and he was hit with a wave of something like unpleasant nostalgia and familiarity. The smell of the bay, and the river. Rotting fish and salt. The traffic and obnoxious cyclists. The smells of the dirty water and garbage and grease. The sound of the underground, screeching beneath their feet, over the sirens and the sounds of the road. Cacophony of lights and ringing cellphones and car exhaust and food and-   
Sensory overload.

Derek hadn’t remembered it being so much. Though, last time, he wasn’t an alpha. The betas were not necessarily faring any better.

They passed old, familiar sights. Tall, sprawling buildings. Bodegas, awnings, parked bicycles, couples arguing on the sidewalks-

Their destination was the financial district.

 

The office building was tall, completely black, and nondescript. It didn't look any different from the buildings surrounding it. No passerby would guess what the business was actually doing.

 

A guard was stationed at the entrance as they drove in. He waved them through when he saw Derek’s identification. There were three sizeable parking lots, and a parking structure next door.

There was a spiral on the front of the building. Their logo.  
Their warning.

Sigils marked the doorway and floor as the team walked into the building.

There was a guard at the desk, as well as men in suits casually sitting in the lobby, trickling from stairways and elevators and hallways, across the open area and disappearing into somewhere else in Mobster Inc. 

And not a mundane in sight.  
They were in the center of the hornet’s nest. 

All looked at Derek and his team.   
The security guard, with an actual gun, stood as Deaton stepped out from a hallway to the left. The guard nodded to the vet and sat back down. The other men in the room calmed as well. 

 

"Good to have you here," Deaton greeted as he walked to join them, like they were old friends bumping into each other at the supermarket.

“We’re heavily warded, so supernatural means of attack are almost impossible,” Deaton commented as the betas scanned the lobby.  
Derek could feel it, without Deaton saying anything. Magic pulsed everywhere, the air heavy with it.

Derek introduced the team. Deaton directed Boyd and Jackson to Tantum's actual security room, to talk with the three equally stern looking guards about possible weak points and the servers they used, camera placement. Tech talk Derek preferred to leave to those more capable.

They all got badges to put in their wallets for the sensory pads next to the mechanically locked doors.

"It may be best if you meet him alone, just for the time being," Deaton said, as they approached the elevators.  
Derek nodded, turning to Erica and Isaac. A 'scuttle away' look on his face.

Isaac understood. "I'll get some coffee for everyone."  
"I'll come too." And Erica joined him.

Deaton pointed the way to the break room, after waving them by the security. They stepped onto the elevator.

“So you've worked exclusively for criminal organizations?” Deaton asked, staring forward at the closing metal doors. 

It was a formality, and a question that was so glaringly obvious Deaton had to be making some kind of point, leading Derek. Because of course he knew Derek worked in the underworld, with humans being their exclusive clientele.   
Though Derek didn’t point out the obvious. Instead, he only nodded.

"Mundy?"   
"Only mundy," Derek confirmed. 

Deaton stared back at the metal wall of the elevator. "Forget everything you know. Supernatural crime is on a completely different level." 

Something wasn’t sitting well with Derek.   
His wolf agreed, stirring in his chest. Smelling something.  
Chicanery.   
Deaton was hiding something. Something about the contract, about Stiles.

Derek wouldn’t be having it. Not when misinformation or direct omission could interfere with his ability to do the job. He mashed the flat of his palm against the ‘emergency stop button’. The elevator halted and Derek turned to Deaton, crossing his arms. We’re not moving until you talk. 

Deaton didn’t even raise an eyebrow. There probably wasn’t much that could have surprised the man.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Derek asked.  
“He’s different.”  
The mobster tango. Dancing around what was truly important. Deaton was skilled. Foot work graceful. “In what way?”  
Deaton sounded almost apologetic, or exasperated, when he replied, “In every way.”

Which didn’t tell Derek anything. He switched gears. "You never actually said, in your report, what the kidnappers were after."  
"That's because I don't know. Stiles is- he doesn't know. At least that's what he says."  
"What did they do to him? The people that took him."  
There was another exhale. "I don't know."  
"You don't know?" Derek asked, keeping his tone level. Though it was hard to believe Stiles’ own guardian was in the dark.  
"Well, I can guess."  
"He hasn't told you," Derek extrapolated.   
Deaton's expression was regretful. "He hasn't told anyone. He said he can only remember bits and pieces, basically nothing. Flashes of light, voices. All we have is what the doctor told me when we got him back. Dehydration, second and third degree burns, multiple fractures, concussion, almost delusional with sleep deprivation."  
Derek took it in. “He’s lucky to be alive.”  
Deaton nodded solemnly. “You don’t know the half of it.”  
The situation wasn’t exactly sitting well with Derek. “And you believe him? That he doesn’t remember.” There was a certain utility in repression, if that was the case.  
“I believe he’s using everything he has to forget. And I’m not about to stop him.” He put his hands in his pockets and looked sideways at Derek. “He’s not a wolf, but he bites like one. Be careful.”

Sensing that’s all he’d be getting out of Deaton for the time being, Derek pressed the button again, jolting the elevator back to work.  
Seconds later, there was a ding, signaling the end of their ride. And Derek was beginning to understand why his family had a strict no mutant policy.

They got off the elevator at the third to the top floor, the floor dedicated solely to the boss.

The walk was silent. The floor was abandoned, except for two other heartbeats.

As they approached the office, Derek was already listening in. The door was open, which made his wolf’s hackles rise. Because open doors meant escape, but they also meant visibility. And visibility was bad.

A voice spoke. A boy’s voice. Stiles, then. “Altair should be back soon, so we’ll have more people.”  
Another accented, British voice replied, “Oh great, the Sentient Piece of Eternal Toast will help us.” The accent wasn’t posh or cockney, somewhere in between, with a harsh twist. Watered down and muddled because he’d been in the States too long, maybe.  
And Stiles laughed at that. “I know you miss him.”

Deaton and Derek came into view, the man being the one halfway facing the door, blocking Stiles, as he gave a disgusted look in response to what had been said.

The man with the British accent had blond hair and was of an average height, and as he turned to Derek, half of his face was badly scarred.  
Burn scars.

The man automatically jumped into action at seeing a stranger’s face. He was in front of the large, wooden desk that Stiles was behind. He placed his body in front of Stiles, acting as a shield. A subordinate protecting his boss

Naturally distrustful.  
Good.

Deaton cleared his throat as he walked past Derek into the office and looked between him and the man. “Stiles, Konstantin- this is Derek Hale, of Hale Security, and the head of your new security team.” Though Deaton had his arm out, gesturing to the burned man, Derek did not extend his hand. And by Konstantin’s crossed arms, he wouldn’t have accepted Derek’s hand even if he had.

The man- Konstantin- smelled like wet hay and something Derek vaguely recognized as Bies. The flash of an aura told Derek his nose was right. Maybe a second generation, maybe third.

Konstantin’s eyes were piercing as he sized him up. For what? Derek could guess. He only nodded and made a sound of acknowledgement.

“Hey, Konstantin- you need to go take care of the new recruits,” Stiles said.   
Which Derek thought was a very polite way for the head to not tell, but ask his subordinate to leave.

Konstantin’s fingers twitched at his side as he turned to Stiles, his jaw working into some kind of nonverbal plead to stay. But Stiles just nodded to him and Konstantin gave a tight nod back, turned around, brushing past Deaton and glaring at Derek, before walking out of the office, door shutting behind him.

 

His eyes landed on the asset. His client. 

Derek was aware that Stiles had aged, of course he was. But the picture in Derek’s mind was unchanging. Stiles had been about six years old forever. And he'd been a cute kid.   
The Stiles over ten years later, did not disappoint. He'd definitely grown up well.   
He had the same boyish features. Same big, amber eyes with long lashes, a cute nose, moles and pale skin. He was sitting in an overly large swivel chair, seeming completely out of place in a flannel atop a black graphic t-shirt.   
He didn't match the people there; his face was open. Soft. Innocent, even. 

Though, if Derek was standing there, that couldn’t be true.

Stiles had a document in his hand. What Derek would assume was the same contract he had signed days before.   
His face was drawn up in something like annoyance. Directed at who, exactly, Derek couldn’t be sure. His godfather, Derek, his subordinate Konstantin- or maybe even himself.

Stiles studied Derek’s face openly, head cocking slightly to the side, his brows slowly furrowing.  
Another thing was abundantly clear; Stiles did not remember him.  
Just as well.

The kid took one long look at Derek and leaned back, pointedly dropping the paper onto the desk. To Deaton, he said: "Take him back. I don't want him."

Deaton was exasperated instantly, like he’d been holding his breath for his godson’s verdict. "Stiles."  
Stiles' eyes flashed from a whiskey amber to frosty blue. Derek blinked and they were back.   
“We discussed this.”

Derek stared at the interior of the office as Deaton and Stiles stared each other down. It wasn’t his place to get involved.

Walking in, parallel to the door and to the right, were two dark, leather couches facing each other. Separating them was a rectangular coffee table, with similar dark wood. Sitting horizontal to the couches, with its back to the window, was a large, oak desk, in front of that, two dark leather chairs. 

Two walls were covered in floor to ceiling windows, the one immediately in front of the door and the right wall. It was cringe worthy from a security aspect and a big hassle, until Derek noticed the thickness of the glass. Bullet proof, then. At least no snipers could get to them.

The room was freezing which was a curious thing, considering the foliage and flora littering the room. Cacti, succulents, bushes of ivy, bamboo lined the desk and floor. Some kind of hibiscus tree was next to one of the couches, the one with its back to the window. There were wooden standing tables behind the desk, pressed to one windowed-wall. It was covered with more plants. 

Next to the door, in the left corner, was a bar. Decorated in more plants and booze. There was a bookshelf built into the wall in the right corner, filled to maximum capacity with a wide array of reading material.

The room was layered with the smell of different people's fear. Coffee, cigarette ash, dust, and lemon cleaning product. The smell of life from the plants.  
Among that was sadness. Anxiety. Stress. Grief- all the emotions someone in Stiles' place should be feeling. But there was something else.   
Derek couldn't quite place it. It was electric; something sharp and distinct. Like a thunderstorm in the forest. Lightning hitting a lake.   
Something not human. In Derek’s internal bestiary, the scent didn't match.

There was power. Magic.   
Not a witch. Or a chimera. Or a kitsune.   
He couldn't tell what it was.   
He inhaled.  
There was the unmistakable feeling of his wolf sitting up in attention, beating his tail against the ground. Head cocked, ears forward.  
Curious. That peculiar feeling; his wolf sitting up and saying, 'ah, I see you'.

Stiles didn’t have an aura.  
Not hidden in the way Deaton’s was. Stiles’ was just- absent.

All in all, it was the office of a mob boss. Albeit a weird mob boss.  
It only took Derek three seconds to take everything in. The sight, the smells- everything that was important.

“You can trust him, them, Stiles. I’ve known the Hales-”  
He waved his hand around, dispelling Deaton’s argument. “It’s not about trust.” Stiles shrugged. "I don't want another bodyguard."  
Deaton took a breath through his nose, like they'd argued countless times and he was trying not to grab Stiles by the shoulders and shake him out of frustration. "We discussed this-"  
"And I especially don't want this guy."  
Derek had had enough of being talked around. "'This guy' would like to know what he did wrong within ten seconds of meeting you."  
Stiles looked to him, making a face. Like, 'where should I even start?' "Your aura is," he waved his hand around, "weird. I don't like it."  
Deaton didn’t look impressed. "'Weird aura' is not enough for me to call him off. Hale Security is trust worthy- I've had dealings with the Hale pack for generations."  
Stiles tapped against the wooden desk, face petulant.

So Stiles could read auras.  
Even though Derek knew for sure they did not see auras in the same way- But what Derek knew for sure; he might’ve had a weird aura to Stiles. But Stiles had no aura. There was no ‘essence of mutation’ surrounding him. Which might’ve been Derek’s shoddy connection to the wolf, but he doubted it. There were no flashes of something that told him mutation. Even mundanes had a little something that told Derek what they were (or what they were not), Stiles had- nothing. 

 

Derek had had clients he couldn’t stand, in the past. The vast majority, actually.  
But it was easier, then. Because Laura was the alpha- he didn’t have to deal with leading or being the main one to coordinate with the client and spend a lot of one on one time.   
He didn’t have to socialize with a client outside of their professional relationship if he didn’t have to. The few clients that actually tried to initiate something would back down after a few glares and heavy silence.  
Derek already knew Stiles would not be that way- the type to back down. There was something about him, maybe from being raised in the mob, Derek noted, as he watched Stiles argue with Deaton. What happened to that cute kid from Beacon Hills?  
Derek knew what happened.  
It was the same thing that had happened to him.  
The files Derek had read told him that the Stiles, in his mind, hadn’t existed for a long time.

 

He focused on what Stiles had smelled like then. Past the smell of fire of ash, past the stake air of the police station-  
All he remembered was that he’d never smelled a mutant like Stiles.

He could smell amphetamines in Stiles’ system. A medicinal scent that, paired with an arrhythmia heartbeat, told Derek enough about Stiles medicating his ADHD, which Deaton had mentioned.

 

Deaton, having enough of Stiles’ petulance, turned to address Derek. “You need to be vigilant. He has a reckless streak. Unfortunately, growing up here, and in Beacon Hills, around healing factored mutants, as well as the folly of youth and no impulse control, has given him an invincibility complex and no sense of self preservation.”  
Stiles huffed, gesturing with a hand as he said, “I am literally right here.”  
In the tone of someone who’d been dealing with Stiles for years, Deaton said, “Oh, I know you are.” To Derek, he continued. "And I want to give you some guidelines. I'm not saying rules, because I will trust in your judgement. But please keep in mind who you're dealing with.”   
Stiles himself just rolled his eyes and slouched forward onto the desk, resting his chin on his crossed arms.  
Deaton side eyed Stiles. “He’s determined to ditch his security whenever, however he can. So never take your eyes off of him, especially in public. He’s more slippery than you’d think. He needs an escort. And when I say ‘at all times’, I absolutely mean that. And I'm granting you express permission to intervene in any situation that could be detrimental to his health, or reputation as the head.”

Stiles put a hand to his chest. “You have so little faith in me? Don’t make me look bad in front of the newbie.”  
"Actually, I have no faith you. You should hear how ridiculous these instructions are. Maybe it will help-"  
"If I want to sneak away? You're giving your playbook to the opposite team," Stiles said, ignoring his godfather’s true meaning; I’m letting you hear this so you know how ridiculous this is that I have rules for you and so you know that Derek knows all of your tricks.  
"You don't have my playbook," Derek said.  
Stiles leaned up until he was on his elbow, one thin hand under his chin, eyes scanning him up and down. Cheeky smirk and cadence as he said, "We'll see."  
“You need to be more careful, Stiles. Especially with all these contracts for your assassination,” Deaton said.  
“You know what they say: ‘the measure of your status of a leader is in the monetary value of the price on your head’.”

Stupid, stupid mobsters- they were the same everywhere.  
The sigh in Deaton’s voice told Derek that he was right. “That's not a thing to be proud of, Stiles.”  
He shrugged, truly uncaring. “Did I say it was? Just pointing it out.”

Deaton ignored Stiles as he said, “Listen, Derek, he’s a talented headache. And a brilliant nightmare. Err on the side of caution.”  
Stiles didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. Instead he nodded, thoughtful and agreeing expression on his face. “Sounds about right.”

 

 

"This is going to be a nightmare."  
Isaac looked at Erica, who was leaning against the counter. "I thought when you volunteered to help me get the coffee you were actually going to help me get the coffee."  
She smiled. "You obviously don’t know me, then."  
He sighed and opened a random cabinet for coffee filters.   
Something was moving. There was a buzzing. Isaac shoved his face closer, until something flew at his face.   
He stepped back and watched it fly around the room. "Bees?" Isaac asked in confusion.  
Erica watched as three or four more flew from the cabinet and disappeared through a gap in the ceiling tiles.   
They looked at each other and silently agreed to leave and find Derek. Not because they were afraid or anything. They just had the coffee to get to everyone else.

Erica and Isaac met Jackson outside of the office. Even though the break room had been on the same floor, they had taken as long as they could to get there.  
"How long have you been waiting out here?"  
Jackson was texting one handed on his phone, the other hand was in his pocket. He was trying to look casual but it looked more like he was trying his hardest not to be awkward. "A couple of minutes. It seems pretty intense in there."

"There were bees. In the break room? Like, what the fuck?" Isaac said, juggling seven cups of coffee by himself.  
"And Boyd is still talking with the security guy here?"   
Jackson nodded, eyes stuck on the door. "Yeah. They were really getting into it so I left him there. He'll be back soon. Probably."

The other beta joined them after another three minutes. They waited there, figuring the four of them together had a better chance of staving off the harsh energy emanating from the closed door.

 

 

After calling upon the betas who’d been waiting outside, Derek introduced them to Stiles.

"This is my team." Derek didn't say 'pack'. As alpha, it took on a whole different meaning than if a beta said 'my pack'. “This is Erica, our weapons expert. Boyd is on tech. Jackson and Isaac handle everything else.”

Stiles was automatically more accommodating to the betas than he’d been to Derek. He watched as Stiles stood to greet them and chat. When he stood up, Derek noted the dark skinny jeans and Converse.  
Definitely not what he thought a gangster would wear. Though, Stiles didn't immediately strike him as even being mostly raised in a gang.

Deaton moved to straighten Stiles’ desk, an obviously practiced habit, almost on autopilot.

It was clear he was trying to buddy up to them. Derek had had that type of client in the past- befriend the security, in hopes they’ll be more lenient.  
Naturally, it was all in vain, Stiles would come to find. 

Though, judging by the way Erica and Stiles were riffing, they’d be thick as thieves soon, their antagonistic personalities and humor fed off of each other. A dynamic that would be sure to cause a headache in the future.

Derek watched the pack get acquainted, without participating. An observer on the sidelines for the upcoming ‘game’. 

Derek noticed Stiles’ lack of concentration and endless energy. His movements were not quite flailing, but animated. Stiles constantly fidgeted with a chain around his neck or the sleeves of his flannel.

“So, Stiles? Is that a family name?” Isaac asked.  
“Nope. No one can say my real name without butchering it so…”  
“Really?”, in a tone that anyone who had a difficult name knew well- it said: I could try. I could pronounce it correctly.  
“No, really. My mom was super old school and no one can pronounce it. So it’s Stiles. And none of that ‘boss’ or ‘sir’ shit.”

Deaton’s phone began ringing. A stock tone of shrilling beeps. "Excuse me." He nodded to the wolves and stepped out of the room.  
Derek took that opportunity to get the betas in check. "Go to Stiles’ hotel for his bags-"  
"-Actually, I can go with you to do that," Stiles said.  
Derek ignored him. "And the rest of you secure the hotel. Three rooms together, like always." He held his hand out to Stiles. “I need your room key.”  
And Stiles, begrudgingly, with a mumbled remark that Derek pointedly ignored, dug into his back pocket and produced a nondescript plastic card. “It’d be easier if I could just go with you-”  
“-It’d be easier for the hit men who killed your last bodyguard to find you, in the same hotel.”  
Stiles didn’t reply, just crossed his arms.

The betas headed out after that.

 

Stiles’ eyes were raking him. “Can I see your gun?” He asked, in a lilted way that made Derek question what ‘gun’ he was wanting to see.  
“No,” Derek replied, though there was really no reason to deny the request. It was perfectly accessible in his shoulder holster and with the safety on, but something told him to not give Stiles what he wanted and he was pretty OK listening to that voice. Maybe it was just to see if he’d pout.  
The answer to that question was yes. Yes, the crime lord was pouting because he was denied the sight of his bodyguard’s gun.

Stiles was on the verge of saying another choice remark when Deaton reentered the room, phone still in hand. He held it up as he said, "And that is my cue to leave. Damage control among the lower ranks and coordination among the three groups and-” More somberly, he continued- “-other arrangements."   
No one said it out loud but the words ‘funeral arrangements’ hung in the air between them. “You’ll get the details as soon as I do,” he said to Derek, more than to Stiles, who noticed but didn’t comment. 

Deaton cast a sympathetic look to Derek as he headed for the door. "Good luck."  
"What's that supposed to mean?" Stiles asked, affronted.  
Deaton looked at him, all raised eyebrows and pursed lips. 'You know what it means'. "I don't know if I'll see you before the funeral so he's in your hands now."  
Derek nodded. “Of course.”

Deaton nodded to Stiles and Derek, and exited the office.

 

“Soooo…” Stiles said when the door closed. Stiles: “You care for the rest of you pack, right? Wolves are tight like that.”   
Derek wasn’t following. “Where are you going with this?”  
“Well, since you’re the security team leader sans your alpha, you’re the only one that can break the contract, right? You have the final say.”  
And that- wasn’t true. He was the alpha. Had Deaton not told him? It didn’t matter. No reason to show all of his cards yet. “Why would I break the contract?”  
Stiles scoffed, like it was obvious. “Seriously? Because if you don’t, you’ll die.”  
Oh. Couldn’t get Deaton to break the contract, so try to pull at Derek’s absent sense of self-preservation. “That’s good, then,” Derek said, “Because there’s nothing, short of death, anyone could do to get me to break the contract.”  
Stiles’ mouth hung open. Recovering, he asked, "Are you sure about that?"   
Derek gave him a blank look.   
Stiles’ mouth quirked into something of a surprised smirk; he hadn’t been expecting resistance.  
Derek was good at resistance and the demands of a mischievous, orphaned heir. "That's hardcore. And kind of awesome but seriously, I don't want you here. I don't want a bodyguard or security team."   
"Why are you against having a bodyguard?"   
"Because whoever, whatever is coming, some were isn't going to stop them."   
"I'm not just 'some were'," Derek defended. He was an alpha.  
Stiles gave him a look like 'sure buddy, whatever you say'. “You have like, almost a 100% chance of dying if you don’t break the contract.”  
“I like a challenge.” And Derek did. It’d been a selling point of taking the contract in the first place.  
Stiles, from his chair, threw his hands up. “I’m trying to save your life. And your pack’s life.”   
Derek changed tactics. “Know how many clients I’ve had die on me?”  
Of course Stiles knew the answer. Everyone did. “Zero,” Stiles said. But his eyes darted to meet Derek’s before going back to somewhere on the floor. “There’s a first for everything.”

Could he quit now? Probably not. 

Stiles switched his line of questioning. “Deaton told me there was going to be an unseen partner on the contract. But that you’re still the team leader.”  
“Peter, my uncle,” Derek answered, with a sour taste in his mouth. “He won’t be a problem.”

Stiles’ eyes drifted upward, like he was thinking. After a pause, he asked, “So what’s your babysitting style? You seem like a hardass.” He wasn’t looking at Derek, instead a blooming cactus on the desk.  
Derek stared at him, unblinking. After a reevaluation on strangling the asset on day one, he said, “We do a little more than ‘babysitting’.”  
Stiles looked up at him in that oh really? kind of way. “So what services do you provide?”   
“I will personally handle and oversee your security detail. I coordinate arrival times, meetings, driving routes, and safe houses. And anything else that could potentially be a threat. Anything you need. We're here."  
"You are my sword and my shield?" He said sarcastically.  
"Yes," Derek said with all seriousness.  
When Stiles said, "You need to lighten up, my man," Derek felt as if he’d missed a reference to something. "You have ten confirmed contracts ranging from 100k to 2 million. So I’m not going to ‘lighten up’."  
Stiles shrugged. "Whatever floats your goat."

Stiles took one of the cups Isaac had set on the desk and took a drink. "Anddd this stuff is awful." He stood up and walked past Derek.

Derek followed him to the door. "Where are you going?"  
"The break room." Stiles eyed him. "Chill, OK? We're safe here."   
Derek suppressed a scowl and followed him out of the office.

Except, Stiles didn’t turn down the maze work of halls towards the elevators. They approached a metal door. Upon opening it, there was a flight of stairs, leading down and up.  
“I try to avoid the elevators,” Stiles said, as they ascended the cement stairs. “I ran out of the good coffee on my floor so we’re borrowing some from up here.”

They came one floor up, into a similar set up as what Derek had already seen. Everything was clean, barren, and sterile. Cold.  
As they walked, Stiles ran his finger tips on the white wall. "So am I supposed to debrief you or something? Are you all caught up in the affairs of the underworld?"   
"Deaton gave us a flash drive," was Derek's answer. Weary of Stiles so openly talking about the affairs of the underworld out in the open. Though, it was his territory.   
Stiles rolled his eyes. "I tell him not to do that. There's too much information. He just does it to be dramatic and make you 'burn after reading'."   
Derek internally relaxed. There was a lot to absorb. Numbers, names, places and terms that were alien to him. With no notes, it was impossible to remember. "Deaton only gave us what was strictly necessary to get a shape of what you need for security. Most of the things about your group, and business, as well as the other two groups were left out. And affiliates or any other parties having anything to do with anything."  
"Well, we'd be in trouble if your background didn't completely check out and you sold a flash drive of all of our private plans and involvements to someone."  
Made sense.

Background checks in the underworld weren’t the same as a real world check for some retail job. They were checking with past clients for conflict of interests. Using informants to say whether or not Derek and the rest of his team had had contact with any- less than reputable persons, the irony of that not being lost on Derek.   
It wasn’t too unlike a regular background check, except for it being more thorough and less legal. Derek had told Boyd to give access to anyone attempting to ‘hack’ their systems. He’d played this game before, albeit with mundanes (and under way less high stakes circumstances) but that’s just how mobsters operated: mundane or mutant.

“Deaton had our best guy on it so I trusted that you’d all check out.”  
“How good is he?”  
“He’s ‘our best’ for a reason.”  
Fair enough.  
Derek didn’t ask for the results, because if they were anything less than clear, they wouldn’t be standing there talking.   
Wait- Stiles had read the report? It must have included where they were born. All of them were from Beacon Hills-   
Stiles continued talking. “-But Deaton only told me the basics. So it seems I’m at a disadvantage here when it comes to knowing information about each other.”  
The report only went through Deaton. Of course. Stiles was probably a tad preoccupied with more important things than vetting reports.

 

They reached the break room, which was so normal Derek had to keep reminding himself that he was in the heart of the muttie criminal underworld.

 

Stiles offered him some but since it was mundane coffee, it was pointless. And why would he drink something so bitter just for the taste? Derek declined.

Stiles spooned four mounds of sugar into his styrofoam cup. Then again, Derek was already convinced Stiles was the furthest thing from a mobster he'd ever encountered.  
He licked the coffee stirrer and took a sip. Then proceeded to chug the entire thing and pitch the empty cup into a trashcan.   
Stiles clapped his hands together. “All right, ready for the mob tour?”

 

Derek had long ago gotten over the discomfort of following another person around. Laura had said it was because of his ‘creepy stalking nature’ that he'd been able to so quickly. That didn't mean the client would feel the same way. In his experience, people generally didn't like it- that it was uncomfortable.   
Some made small talk occasionally, always keeping things curt and professional. Others ignored him completely. He didn't mind either way. Less distractions the better. It was even rarer for a client to treat him like a coworker or acquaintance. Or like an actual person, not just walking muscle. Much less a friend. Some asked his opinion on things and vented, trusting him with their thoughts and feelings. He was whatever the client needed him to be. Whether that be a silent ghost or a second hand.   
He watched as Stiles almost tripped on his own feet on flat ground.  
Or a babysitter.

“The cameras inside the building are pretty scarce, but they’re here.”  
Derek nodded; it wasn’t ideal but it would have to do. He’d put Boyd in charge of that, as he was the one coordinating with Tantum’s onsite security.

“I’m sure Deaton already told you how heavily this place is warded. It could be more fortified, but everything’s done by him. And even he has limits.”   
Bringing in multiple high-level magic users was a complicated thing. Hackers using code, with their own variables, was the equivalent of a mage using a ward. Different people, different ways to achieve the same goal. It made sense that it was all handled by Deaton.

“The badges Deaton gave you and your team are the keys to moving around this place. There’s no chance of anyone using an RFID emulator, so as long as you don’t lose the badge, it’s safe.”  
Stiles put his wallet to door’s sensory pad as they walked. The light turned from red to green. “I know, we’re so corporate. And because of this, you won’t just find people who live here wandering around my office, because they don’t have access to those floors.”

Stiles made small talk about the workings of his group as they walked.

“Tantum, as a company, has over 300 employees (regular employees, recognized and affiliated with Tantum in the eyes of the government). All of which are provided with housing, if they need it. Or they’re free to stay in the -living quarters here-. I’m not sure on the exact numbers though, I’m not the one who does payroll.”  
“And what about Tantum, as a group in the syndicate? And the other two groups? How many people, then?  
Stiles thought a moment, his eyes drifting upward. “Then it gets closer to 900. Though that’s not counting subgroups or for-hire people or informants or police or anyone else we pay off. And let’s not forget, we’re all over the country. New people join everyday, from all over.”

Stiles was already talking, onto the next thing. “Our usual guy for punishment is…indisposed, so Deaton has been having other people do it.”  
Derek didn’t ask what he meant by ‘indisposed’. And didn’t want to know. 

John’s office, or Stiles’ more appropriately, was the third floor from the top. The two above them were empty. The floor directly below them had the bigger board rooms and more spare offices and breaks rooms.

“What’s on the roof?”  
“We’ll go up there later and you can see for yourself.”  
Which was a…curious response. 

The mutant men they walked past ducked their heads and tipped their hats to Stiles.

When the men passed and turned down another corridor, Derek asked, “What’s in the basement?”  
Stiles stretched his arms above his head. “A fire hazard.”   
Derek didn’t know how to respond.   
“Paper records and files- that sort of thing,” Stiles explained. “I don’t usually go down there because the guy who organizes it gets kind of weird. We used to have a shooting range in the basement but I’m sure you can imagine the problems that can create.”

The bottom floor consisted of the lobby and waiting rooms and more spare offices.

They traveled through the floors with the living quarters and the recreation rooms. Pool tables and vending machines and TVs could be found everywhere. Gyms, complete with showers and locker rooms. It all looked so normal it was almost jarring. Derek had seen enough of the mundane mobs to know looks were deceiving. They had a surplus of ‘break’ rooms on every floor. “We do have down time here. Or, the lower members do.”

More offices and board rooms. It was almost like a real office building, meeting a dormitory.

During the tour, Derek and Stiles stumbled across familiar scenes, only difference was the glamourless mobsters sitting around on leather chairs, smoking and playing cards. Third generation Bubaks, with straw-like hair and leather skin. Vixens, halfing ghouls, and chimera mobsters, comfortable in their own bodies. Some of the men had visible spiral tattoos. Some even had brands, scarred over or still healing. 

Rooms went silent as Stiles entered. Some Tantum mobsters glared at Derek, and Derek glared right back. Some ignored him and instead greeted Stiles, offering what little smiles they could manage. That was-   
not normal. Seeing the boss was usually not a good experience. 

They offered him cigarettes and condolences, the latter of which he took in stride. Apparently, the men were going out drinking after the funeral to celebrate John’s life.  
Stiles declined.

The circumstances of John’s death, as far as Derek had learned, had been hidden from the Tantum underlings and the rest of the syndicate. Only the top members knew what had actually happened. And it would stay that way.

His aura read Centaur and so did his smell, but he passed as human. A glamour, then. A rare sight in the office building, though it must’ve been for practical reasons. Derek couldn’t imagine waking up the stairs with hooves was an easy thing.  
“Hey, Al-Sabu, where’s your brother?”  
“Celebrating Rosh Hashanah with his girlfriend.”  
“The new one?”  
“A different, newer one.”  
Stiles laughed. “Wow. Call me when he gets back.”  
Al-Sabu nodded. “Yes, boss.”

There Stiles was- talking to a random mutant like they were somehow equals. 

 

As they headed back to his office after the ‘mob tour’, Stiles began talking again. But not about Tantum. “Where are you from?”  
In place of an actual answer, Derek asked, “How do you know I’m not from here?” It was more of a test; how easy was it to derail him?  
Stiles rolled his eyes. “No one is actually from here.”  
The answer? Easy. “I could be.” But Derek still didn’t answer. It would raise questions and he had cut off that part of himself long ago- the him from before.   
“Ha, ha,” Stiles pronounced.

Derek went in the office first, on principal. 

There was no one and Stiles brushed past him to sit at the desk, unconcerned. It was a problem that he was comfortable enough to think an attack at the main office was unheard of. Lulled into a false sense of security, then. 

Stiles leaned forward, staring at Derek. “OK- you want to know stuff. So do I. So let’s play the question game.”  
Derek sat in the chair across from Stiles’ desk. He was silent. Then: “Am I supposed to know what that is?”  
“The question game?” Stiles sat back. “You know, like, you want to ask me personal questions- then you have to answer them too. The game ends when you don’t want to answer a question that you ask.”  
Derek had doubts about the origin of the game. He’d never heard of it. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it was something Stiles had made up, to deal with bodyguards. “Seems like an inefficient way for me to get information that could help me do my job better.”  
“Yeah, well, it also helps people from being too nosey.”  
Derek didn’t point out how it was his job to be ‘nosey’. “What if I can’t answer because it’s not applicable?”  
“Well, the game ends then too. Your answer has to make sense.” Stiles said it like Derek should’ve known all the rules.   
He’d play the game. “Fine. You technically already went so I get to ask the second question.”  
“But you didn’t even answer…” Stiles put his hands up. “Whatever. Your turn, then.”

Derek could play games, if that meant Stiles cooperating. “Do you trust me?”  
Stiles shrugged. “Deaton does. And that’s what matters.”  
Derek needed Stiles’ explicit trust, if he wanted this to work. But that took time.  
“Deaton told me that he’d been scouting Hale Security for three months. And that he’d been waiting for you to return- which your super helpful alpha said was unknown.”  
The wolf let out a low growl in annoyance as Derek let Stiles believe he was just a beta. Derek ignored it. But, to Stiles’ answer, at least he wasn’t outright rejecting Derek.   
Yet.   
Derek was waiting for the first time he’d have to say no to some outrageous and unsafe request. Then Stiles would feel differently. Everyone did; mundane or not. Derek backtracked. “Do you think you’ll be able to trust me?”  
Stiles shook his head. “Uh-uh. The rules, Derek. It’s your turn to answer your own question.”  
He sat back in the chair, crossing his arms. “I can’t say. I've worked with people like you most of my life. So I know, as a rule, that you're full of shit.”  
Stiles let out a laugh. “The audacity. Derek, look at this face, do you trust me?”  
He didn’t hesitate with his answer. “No.”  
Stiles nodded. “Good, that means you’re a man of sound logic.”  
Loyalty wasn’t bought, it was earned. And Hale Security’s reputation had suffered in the last six months, though Stiles didn’t seem to care one way or another.

“My turn. Do you like working in the mob? My answer: no. You?”  
The question didn’t apply. Derek didn’t actually work in the mob and Stiles knew that.  
Derek couldn’t answer.   
But he didn’t want the game to end, like Stiles clearly wanted it to. He hadn’t explained that the point of the game was to end it as quickly as possible. “No,” Derek said.  
Stiles’ eye twitched, mouth open. “You can’t do that. You don’t work in the mob, so you have no answer.”   
Derek, unfazed by his use of the loophole, replied, “You said I just had to have an answer and answer the question in a way that made sense- and my answer just happened to be ‘no’. So now it’s your turn to answer the question.”  
Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’m not playing with you anymore. Game over.” He scooted the rolling chair back in forth. “But I guess that means it’s time for the business questions, right? Because you just walked into a shit storm and a flashdrive from Deaton isn’t going to cut it.”  
“No ‘question game’?” Derek hazarded.   
“Nope. Whatever you need to know that’s gonna save my ass from this job, go for it. I’m an open book. Deaton already had you guys sign an NDA our lawyers drew up but it doesn’t matter, considering you’ll end up getting scrubbed anyway.” Stiles leaned forward when he said, “By the way, I did look at the contract. You’re scrubbed after every job? That’s a raw deal.” 

Derek lost details, names and such. Parts remained, but nothing that could jeopardize the previous client’s ‘business’. Derek was a professional fly on the wall. The things he knew could topple empires, even after the scrubbings, though he’d never admit it. He liked to sell himself short as a layman, to appear as something less than he was. It was good to be underestimated.   
But he was pretty sure Stiles had that part of his act figured out, because of that odd sense of perception of his. “It’s always been part of the deal.” Otherwise, Hale Security couldn’t maintain their client-base.  
Stiles leaned back. “You know the chances of that going wrong, even if wolves are more resilient? And the chances of your mind being oatmeal when you’re old?”  
Before Derek could say the truth of the matter, that ‘I probably won’t grow old enough to have to worry about the state of my mind’, Stiles answered him with: “But, are any of us who are involved in the game really worried about the long term like that?”

As they began, Derek put on his act. If he sold himself short, clients felt comfortable enough to talk. They revealed possible threats, how they operated-  
“Does that act work on your mundy clients? Big and dumb quiet guy?”  
Derek tried to play it off coolly. “It usually does.”  
“I’m not the same as your previous clientele.”  
All he could think was, ‘Clearly’.  
The smart ones were the worst.

Stiles could talk a lot. But it’s because he knew what he was talking about.

"I'd like to start out by saying we're really not as bad as people think."   
"Gangs can only be so good," Derek prodded. He needed to know what Stiles was made of, what he could take, how he’d react. Purposefully being irksome was one way to do that.   
"First- not a gang. Second- I didn't say we were good. We're just not one hundred percent evil."   
The wolf swished his tail at the smell of Stiles’ frustration. Derek liked that feeling. Being deliberately obtuse seemed to be the way to go. "If you're not a gang, what are you?"   
"We’re a syndicate, which you should know is an affiliation of gangsters in charge of organized criminal activities."   
"Doesn't sound too different from a gang."   
"We-" Stiles gestured to himself and the building around them- "My group would be a gang. If we were just operating by ourselves. But we're not. We're organized in units, called a group. Each group's main body of people-for the most part- is blood related. Well, except the Alphas. But a wolf pack is just as good as blood so that's not really a rule. More like a general guideline," he added. “Sub groups- you know, the ones that any of the three main groups can boss around but ultimately answer to me, do whatever is needed. They’re little guys that run the day-to-day, like in gambling dens, chop shops, and keeping the bookies in line. We delegate other sub groups to run things in-person on the national front. I, like my father before me, have men and other sub groups across the country that handle things more personally because I can’t exactly micro manage a Cannabis farm in Baton Rouge. They have their own offices all over the country." 

"There are three main groups, which have a handful of main members, the bosses, and then lesser members. The Argents, the Alphas, and my group, which is headed by the company Tantum."  
They were the biggest muttie crime syndicate in the States, Derek knew that much. Heard the mundanes he watched whisper about them. About the terrifying human boss that ruled the mutants. Used to, at least.  
“All three heads including me, the main head, are centered here in New York- but I'm sure you knew that. But I won’t ask, because you’d only pretend you didn’t.”  
Derek didn’t answer, just put on a face that said he had no idea what Stiles was talking about.

Stiles rolled back in his chair to open a desk drawer. He pulled out a folded paper. As he spread it out across the desk, Derek saw a map.  
It was of the five boroughs of Manhattan.  
Each borough and county was in a different color. Not just solid chunks either; the colors were speckled throughout.   
Stiles tapped on the map with long, pale fingers. “The Argents are yellow, the Alphas are blue.”  
“And Tantum is red.” Derek finished.  
“Smart man.” His eyes searched the map. “636 million square feet, five boroughs, three crime syndicate groups. Each territory has its own ‘king’. Though, ultimately, I have supreme reign over everyone.”  
“It’s your kingdom.”  
Stiles nodded once. “This just makes maintenance of our control easier, here in New York. My dad made the lines very clear, to our groups and to rivals outside of the syndicate, whether they’re mundane or mutant. Maintenance of national control is harder, it involves more moving parts. Each head chooses people and sends them to other states to control. These people have to be trusted and thoroughly vetted. They make reports, control sub groups.”  
“Spread the good word of the syndicate?”  
Stiles almost smiled. “Now you’re getting it.”

Stiles folded up the map with some difficulty, and without properly doing so, threw it back in the desk. “So, questions?”  
For the sake of understanding the state of the syndicate as a whole, Derek needed to know about…well, the syndicate as a whole. "I want to know about the groups. All of them. And what they’re in charge of.” They all probably dabbled in one thing or another but mutant crime had to be at least similar enough to the way humans ran things, where everyone had their own area of specialization and expertise. First and foremost, a syndicate was a business. That would not change across the species lines. Some things were universal.

Stiles leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the desk. “We’ll start with the Argents. To put it bluntly, they’re the drug traffickers. And makers and suppliers. They're the cleaners too, for crime scenes and such. Though it's more of a side business. They call it waste disposal.”

Derek was familiar with the Argents. They were more famous in mutant circles for things besides their involvement with the criminal underground.  
Their terrible history in the Razing, their hunting ancestors. 

“They make the muttie drugs. They were responsible for the rise of Honeydew.”  
"Honeydew?" Derek repeated, a hint of amusement coloring his tone. “That new mutant designer drug?”  
"I don't name the stuff. It's basically a proprietary blend of your 'mundy drug' of choice and depending on mutation, they're laced with mistletoe or whatever will get your mutant rocks off- the list is endless. They give mundy drugs the edge needed to produce the same effect for mutants." 

"What else?"   
"There’s a spectrum. Bad to good. Honeydew is obviously bad. But there are also the enhancers which, at this point, are just supernatural steroids. So I guess that'd be somewhere in the middle because they can be used for good."  
"Or used for raging and destroying a city block."  
"Chaotic neutral, then."  
"I'm guessing the other side of the spectrum are dampeners. Or inhibitors. Suppressors?" The terminology had evolved since Derek was a pup. 

But he was familiar with dampeners.  
It was legally required for a born wolf in a mixed high school- especially after there had been several incidents with shifting, among other wolf students. 

"Those are all the same thing, just different names. I’m sure you’re already overly educated on the subject. And their inhibiting effect through various means. The quality is better than the stuff regulated by the government. So is the potency.”  
“Cheaper, better quality. What’s the downside?” Because Derek knew there had to be one.  
"They also sell glamours, for those with physical mutations they'd wish to hide. Or for those legally required. And before you ask, yes, they found a witch to make top-grade glamours. Only the best that can be illegally made."   
“And the downside is…?”  
Stiles sighed. “’Illegally made’ cannot be stressed enough. Their glamours still have some bugs. That stuff is harder to get right when it’s not sold by big Pharma. But that shit is expensive so people take the chance anyway.”

Derek nodded, taking it in. "What about the other group? The pack of Alphas?"   
Of course, Derek has heard about the pack of Alphas. They were infamous in the wolf underground. A merciless brood that killed their former packmates. Top of the food chain in strength and the criminal underworld.

"Deucalion's pack, all of the Alphas and their subordinates, are weapon traffickers. They specialize in smuggling. But they’ve been known to make modified firearms.”  
“That’s hot product. Where would they keep that?”  
Stiles shrugged. “Warehouses, here and there. Shaders help and the police on my payroll stay away. Any unwanted attention that somehow gets through all of that is dealt with.” He seemed to be counting on his fingers, the various deeds the Alphas were involved in. “We also use them as muscle. Their members handle security for the majority of our businesses. Their own casinos and pawn shops, as well as Argent night clubs. They collect late loans that the ones in my group give out. They are also the fences and more recently, in charge of illegal gambling. Deucalion’s taken up fixing fights. So if you ever want to know who to bet on, hit me up.”  
“I think I’m good.”  
Stiles tilted his head, that same smirk still lilting his tone. “Suit yourself. They also have a scrubber for hire. Memory fabrication, extraction, and dream walking is becoming a more mainstream business so they are trying to monopolize that.”   
"They have an actual telepath? I didn't think there were any more.” They usually ended up drugged out of their minds, after being black bagged by the government. That, or ending the voices with a bullet under the chin.   
"Nah, she's more like a telepath sympathizer?” He thought a moment. “I don't actually know what she is." 

Totaling the information from Deaton’s flashdrive, what Derek had already known and coming up somewhat short, Derek asked, “What about sex work?”  
Stiles blushed unevenly. God, he was such a teenager. "Dude, I don't know. The Alphas handle the sex shops and clubs. And I stay out of the details." Recovering, he continued. “We have another pack of wolves. The alpha is Satomi. But they handle a lot of international relations, so they’re not in the country right now.”

Derek could read into that. Wolf dynamics, territorial disputes- they weren’t ‘primitive’ things of the past. Territory disputes killed thousands of wolves and humans alike in the past.   
Humans tended to think wolves weren’t territorial anymore, which wasn’t the truth. Wolves just assimilated to the mundanes and handled it in different ways. The old battles, of tooth and claws made way for constant traveling and ‘wanderlust’. Otherwise, the resident pack would use any tool at their disposal to run out the offending pack.  
Not all packs were hostile, some lived on the same land in harmony, though it was still something of a wolf law to stay out of each other’s way.  
Derek doubted that Satomi was the one who came up with the idea of traveling the world.  
“It’s a good thing turf wars don’t really happen between wolves anymore, or at least, appear that way. Having Satomi and the Alphas, and now your pack in the same place would be ruinous. Granted, she’s only in the country a couple months out of the year and you’re here temporarily.”

Derek nodded. “So weapons and physical coercion, that’s their deal?”  
"They don't just smuggle weapons across borders, they smuggle people. Mutant families that have been denied entrance to the country for some bullshit reason. The scrubber they have has been able to help a lot of mutants; you know, old people with Alzheimer’s, or mentally scarred and violent mutants trying to remember some good from their childhood. Granted the whole loan collection thing and underground fighting rings are not exactly good but, you win some you lose some.” 

Stiles fiddled with the chain around his neck. “Now concerning my group. We're Tantum Enterprise. Or Tantum Incorporated, the lawyers change things constantly, who can keep up? Legally, Tantum is a shell corporation, and only exists on paper. I mean, if we want to get into the legal-technicality-jargon, we’re something like a holding company, of a subsidiary, of a loan out, of an llc- it goes on. But everyone just calls us Tantum, like someone would call the Alphas’ entire group, despite it not being made up of only alphas or wolves, even. Hence, Tantum." 

Or how the entire Argent group was called that, even though only a few were bound blood. 

So Stiles had business proxies. "And illegally, you're the head group in this country's largest crime syndicate.” Derek had to add, “Which is just the word ‘mutant’ backwards.”  
Stiles huffed a laugh, head tilted back. He must’ve gotten that all the time. "You would be correct."   
John either had an incredible sense of humor or tacky brand labeling.  
Reading Derek’s face, Stiles said, "I know." 

Derek had heard all sorts of things. But what was the truth? "So what exactly do you do?"   
Stiles swiveled slightly in his chair before answering in the vaguest way possible. "Our fingers are dipped in a lot of pies."   
"What kind of pies?"   
“It depends on the ‘official’ and the ‘unofficial’. Tantum Inc. buys and trades stock with brokers, and also acts as a loan investment company. We’re in charge of liquid assets as a front company. But we deal in the real estate market too, with our own front housing agencies, restaurants, bars, offices- You know, to pass money through, or tax shelters. We’re an umbrella of all things adult and boring.”

All mobsters had legitimate businesses. Like Stiles said, to pass money through. Make the accounts look right. Money coming in, through ill gotten gains, had to go somewhere. The real estate also gave the syndicate more physical control and gave spaces for its members to police and hang out.

“And ‘unofficially’?”   
"We're the accountants. The book keepers. For all of the groups. I track all the money that comes in and out of the syndicate. But we dabble in some other things." He put up a finger for everything he listed. "Extortion, racketeering, fraud, forgery, money laundering, political corruption via bribes and blackmail- that sort of thing. We also have the final say on putting out hits. Tantum’s ‘bounty hunters’ take care of that side of the business. Among other things."   
In other words: hit men. “And law enforcement? You mentioned you had the police in your pocket earlier.” Which made parts of Derek’s job easier.  
“And politicians. But that’s more on the local level; the Feds and the like are a whole other animal. Though it’s nothing we can’t handle. As I said, we have really good lawyers. Our services and targeted market are mutants. If the general public, and government, won't help us, we'll make our own help." 

Because of their skill with falsifying official documents and forging papers, Tantum was a safe haven for fugitive mutants. And, more importantly, they could manipulate the Class system and the mutant registry. 

“We also have sites on the Deep Web that tie all the groups together and modernize business. We have a couple tech guys that handle it. It’s an online marketplace for Alpha firearms, Argent drugs, and our falsified papers.”  
The syndicate had to be protected on all fronts. Cybersecurity was just as important, especially when dealing with the Deep Web and the bursting bubble that was Bit Coin. “How many of them are there? Your ‘tech’ guys?” He’d have to get Boyd more familiarized with that side of the Stiles’ business.  
He smiled, like he was in on a joke that Derek wasn’t. “Danny, Erasmus, and a couple others are in charge of the terminals in New York. But we have control of data farms all over the country. And we only hire the best. Donati, the boss before my dad, didn’t give a shit about the internet. Well, my dad made sure to change that. And he pioneered our marketplace and gave us a massive online presence.”  
“You also have several contracts on your head, that were found on the Deep Web.”  
“Yeah, well, can’t win ‘em all.”

As Stiles talked, and from his own experiences and knowledge, information on his father came out.  
John reminded Derek of the old yakuza, the ones his parents used to talk about. It sounded like he kept the streets clean. People liked him. He didn’t bother ordinary citizens. Yakuza used to become politicians, they owned the polls. That way, the syndicate could become more powerful than organizations like the FBI and CIA.  
And most importantly, John was respected as a boss.

Peter, who had probably just touched down on Japanese soil, would be stepping into a world completely different from the one Derek and Stiles were occupying.

“People have a need, we fill that need.” Stiles rubbed his hands together. “It’s giving people the illusion of freedom, just like any other capitalistic venture.”  
“Freedom?” Derek asked. Half of New York could feel the invisible vice that the syndicate created.  
“Our services, just like advertisement, are based on one thing: happiness. And you know what happiness is? It’s materialistic, it’s an enterprise. Happiness is the smell of a new car. It’s freedom from fear, freedom from the things that affect us all, mundane or mutant. It’s the billboard on the side of the road that screams about happiness being a new house or Gucci belt away. It’s reassurance, that we can make you happy.”

There was no good or bad in their business. There was just win or lose. Live or die.

Derek kept pushing him. "Am I detecting a warped sense of mortality and justice?"   
Stiles' raised his eyebrow in a knowing sort of way. Like, 'you're a hired bodyguard dealing entirely with organized crime–human or otherwise- and you're the one talking about justice?'. He gestured with his hand, between himself and Derek. "Pot meet kettle." 

Derek’s phone pinged with the go ahead from Boyd, saying they were securing the hotel. 

“Deaton’s told you about the safe house?” Derek asked, pocketing his phone.  
“Yeah, there’s nothing meeting your requirements that’s available right now so until then, we’re changing hotels frequently." Stiles waffled his fingers behind his head, elbows raised and pointed forward. For a brief moment, a sliver of pale skin just above his waist line was showing. "What are your requirements, by the way? For the safe house?”  
Derek spared Stiles all of the requirements, because there was quite an extensive list, when it came to a long-term safe house.  
“I don’t want an apartment. It has to have a yard, front and back with high fences. It doesn’t matter how big. There can’t be a balcony in the front, but there can, and I’d prefer if there was, one in the back. Mostly a residential area. And that's just the external location, there's more for the interior.” 

The mental checklist pertaining to the interior of the house was longer, but more in Derek’s control.  
Multiple outlets in every room, functioning smoke detectors, no chimney (though there could be a fireplace), new locks, security system and alarm with a new code, not connected to the police, but to Derek’s tech, through Boyd’s own ingenious, a deadbolt on the front door-  
The list went on.

Stiles nodded. “You’re right. That’s going to be a tall order. Probably impossible.”  
“Deaton assured me he’d get it done.”  
Derek looked around the office once more before saying, “Then it’s time to get to the new hotel.”  
“If you say so, sir,” he said mockingly. Stiles grabbed the red hoodie from the arm of one of the couches and shrugged it on. Then he retrieved a black messenger bag from under the desk before leaving the office for the elevators. 

 

“Mercedes Benz S Class,” Stiles commented as they reached the parking lot.  
Derek preferred the Camaro, which was kept at the loft during contracts, over the Mercedes Peter had bought for Hale Security.   
“Cool car. But in my experience, in private security, aren’t there normally black SUVs? Or are you just not a cliché?”  
“I have Jackson and Erica in the black Escalade. Boyd and Isaac are driving the tech van.”

Stiles went for the front seat. Derek, seeing this in advance, followed him and blocked the handle.  
"What are you doing?"  
Stiles looked at him strangely. "I called shot gun?"  
Derek opened the back door and looked from Stiles to the interior. His expression was clear. You're sitting in the back.  
Stiles crossed his arms. "Seriously? You're one of those bodyguards?"   
“In the event of a crash, the back is the safest part of the car.”  
"Oh my- fine. Fine. I'll do it, just this once," Stiles said, putting his hands up as a sign of peace. "But next time, not only will I be in the front, I'll also be driving."  
Derek shut the door behind him. "Yeah. Right."

In the back, Stiles asked, “Would you prefer me to sit in the middle and double buckle too?”   
Despite the sarcasm, Derek responded, “Yes.”   
Stiles huffed and moved to the passenger’s side seat, buckling in. 

They drove through the gate, Stiles waving to the guard and telling him good evening. Then there was silence.

The silence didn’t last long before Stiles asked, “I get to ride in the tech van at some point, right?”  
Probably not. Boyd didn’t like clients in the van, too many opportunities for them to ‘mess things up’. Instead of straight out telling him ‘no’, Derek thought the rejection from Boyd would have more of an impact on Stiles. So he answered, “You’ll have to ask Boyd.”

A red beamer cut him off, no blinker.  
Derek gripped the wheel.  
It was fine, everything was fine.

Derek kept an eye on the cars behind him. He incrementally slowed down and sped up, to see if any of them followed suit.  
They didn’t.  
No tail for now, then.

Stiles adjusted until his knees were planted into the back of the passenger seat. "So tell me about yourself. We can do another round of the Question Game, I didn’t get enough information the first time around."   
Derek glanced at him in the rear view but said nothing.  
"Still going with the whole scary and unfriendly bodyguard thing?"   
"That's because I am your bodyguard. And not your friend."   
He was quiet for another moment but based on his breathing, Derek knew he wasn’t done yet.  
"Not my friend? Not even a little bit?"   
He looked at Stiles in the rear view. After a beat, if just to shut him up, Derek said, "Maybe a little bit."   
Stiles actually smiled at that. "Sweet." 

 

 

Erica was adjusting the holster on her hip. She’d taken it off when checking in, just to spare herself from the looks of the humans in the lobby. “So he was the sheriff’s kid? Beacon Hills is almost three thousand miles away, they sure traveled far.”  
“To be fair, so did we.” He hit Erica's shoulder with the back of his hand. "Hey, by the way, what did Deaton say Stiles was?"  
She looked to him and then blankly forward. "I don't think he said."  
"Who?" Isaac asked, after coming into the room with a coil of wire, to be put into black, plastic boxes of equipment.   
"Deaton never told us what Stiles is." Jackson’s face was practically squashed against the window’s glass to scan the parking lot as a precaution. Who knew when they'd be back? Derek’s evasive driving maneuvers were unpredictable.  
Erica began unpacking the boxes of tech. "We already know, don't we?"  
Ignoring Boyd’s chatter about shitty cell reception over the ear piece, Isaac asked, "We do?"   
"Yeah. He's a witch,” she said, like it was obvious.  
Jackson peeled his face from the glass to say, "Bullshit."  
"Well then what do you think he is?" Erica asked, sitting on one of the beds and opening her laptop. “I think I heard Class A unlisted mentioned. Which supports my theory of him being some third or fourth generation witch.”  
Isaac leaned against the hotel desk, which was currently housing their comms setup. "He's some kind of sea creature, I'd bet. You saw how blue his eyes got."  
The other betas laughed. Jackson said, "No way. He doesn't smell like a witch and why would you think sea creature? I think he's a kitsune."

Boyd, over the ear piece, said, "For the record, I think he's a kitsune too. Thunder, if I had to guess a type. And Isaac? Stop leaning on the ‘call’ button for the van."  
Isaac jumped away from the desk. Speaking into the microphone on his wrist, he mumbled, “Sorry, Boyd.”  
Erica eyed Isaac as he recovered from his mistake and had registered Boyd’s words, he was looking at her in an 'I told you so'. "Traitor," she said to Boyd, over the ear piece.

"Let's make this interesting, then. And see who's right.” Jackson clapped his hands together. “We’ll make it a challenge.”  
"Like a bet?" Isaac clarified.  
"Exactly. Winner gets…” Jackson thought a moment. “…Out of night duty. And out of patrolling if it’s raining.”  
“And chores. No chores,” Isaac added.  
Erica nodded and said, “And gets to choose the food, whenever it’s our turn. Or have to go pickup said food."

Boyd spoke up over the ear piece, as Isaac had gone back to leaning on the ‘call’ button. "This sounds fun and all but how are we going to find out what he is? We can't just ask- there's clearly a reason no one came out and said what he is."  
"We wait and watch, then. It'll come out eventually. You can't keep your mutation a secret from a team of five people, trained to observe, for six months," Jackson said.  
The betas looked at each other.   
Erica said, "You're on. All of you."

 

 

Their new hotel was in the Upper East Side. A long drive through traffic and slow cyclists, from the Tantum office.

As they pulled up to the monolith hotel, Derek could see the black, nondescript van and the Escalade.

“That’s your van? It’s a total creeper van.”  
Derek ignored him. It was efficient, and civilians never looked at it twice. 

The betas had withdrawn and paid for the rooms in cash.  
No one associated with the syndicate directly owned the hotel. Though it was one of Tantum’s investors’ property. The woman was far enough removed from the syndicate and, from Boyd’s investigations, was presently vacationing in Tahiti, so Derek didn’t have to worry about a leak.

Boyd met them at the entrance. They all walked in together, Derek and Stiles with bags over their shoulders.

The lobby of a hotel was as familiar to Derek as the loft. They didn’t change much, across states and countries. And this one wasn’t any different. Big and garishly decorated, with a central check in point, staffed with people whose smiles were painted on and stretched too far.

Boyd handed three cards to Derek and three cards to Stiles as they rode the elevators to the third floor. "We have three rooms. 303 is the main security hub, 304 is Stiles' room, 305 is the off-duty room." 

 

Derek went into 304 before Stiles. The room was drafty, with billowing curtains. He went to the window and looked out. It was quite a fall. He shut the window, mildly concerned with it being able to open in the first place.  
Though, he didn't think Stiles was dumb enough to climb out of it. If he did sneak out, it'd be during one of their shift changes. Right under their noses, probably right through the hotel door.   
'Where's Stiles?'   
'What do you mean? I thought he was with you.'  
It had happened before with unwilling clients, even to him. Though it'd been years ago when he'd first started out in the family business.

He turned to see Stiles, throwing his bag on the bed, next to the suitcase the betas had retrieved.

The only problem was that Stiles was the epitome of unwilling client.

It smelled like chemical products and other people. Clean, but not sterile.  
When he checked the bathroom, it was organized. And the white beds were tightly made with military corners. There was a desk and microkitchen.

Stiles was rummaging through his Hermes messenger bag. He emerged with what Derek gathered was his second, personal phone.

Derek put his finger to his ear after Isaac rattled off question after question. “Come here,” Derek said to Stiles, walking to the door. He turned when Stiles didn’t follow.  
“Where are we going?” Stiles asked.  
“303. We have business to take care of.”  
Stiles rolled his eyes, collecting his bag from the bed. “Oh, gee, ‘business’. Don’t get enough of that.”

The ‘business’ was keeping Stiles preoccupied while the betas finished setting up.

 

They'd grabbed pizza and eaten together. Derek had Stiles with them in 303 for the time being. 

Derek hadn’t been lying, he needed some things from Stiles. But he also had the end goal of having Stiles spend as little time as possible alone. People got stupid when they were alone with their thoughts.  
If Deaton had taken the time to very explicitly warn Derek about how crafty Stiles was, and the previous security and Stiles’ dodging attempts, then Derek would take it seriously. So he'd insisted that Stiles remain with them, and would keep insisting as long and often as Derek and the team deemed necessary. At least until they gaged how much of a threat he was to his own safety. 

Isaac and Boyd remained in 303 with Stiles and Derek, while Jackson was in the security van. Erica was scoping out the hotel, making sure the portable cameras were in place and everything was in order. Though, there was probably a fair bit of texting going on, if Boyd's slight smile when he looked into his lap was anything to go by. Derek didn't feel like calling him on it.

They spent time going through the same security procedures Stiles had probably memorized since adolescence, though he played along anyway. He was attentive, nodding at appropriate points, also adding his own colorful commentary that was more or less necessary.

Stiles was inquiring about the specifics of the ear pieces they used when Derek realized that he was being pumped for information.   
Stiles was familiar with security. Had been through different teams, procedures before he’d even hit middle school. Intimately familiar.  
‘Don’t assume anything about the client’, Laura had always said.

The way Isaac and Boyd kept looking to Derek after every attempt on Stiles’ part to derail safety procedures, like he was going to snap right there, made Derek think they all really had been out of the game too long and needed to work on their professionalism.   
Not Derek, just them.

Boyd and Derek also switched information with Stiles. Phone numbers and addresses they needed to know, Stiles’ PO Box. And by about nine at night, they had everything they needed to get done and out of the way. Which posed its own problems. Namely, Stiles was now free of mandatory distraction.

 

Jackson chose that time to come back into the hotel room momentarily to swap phones with Boyd, after grabbing the other’s by mistake. To be the antagonistic person Jackson was, he asked, "So- Park Avenue, huh? Must've been cool," Jackson managed to say, with only the slightest jealously. Stiles’ previous address, where he’d lived with his father. He’d since sold the property.  
Stiles was sitting at the table, chin on the crook of his elbow. He was browsing something on his phone with dull eyes. "Yeah, it was."  
"You don't seem like a spoiled rich kid," Isaac pointed out.  
"Yeah, by design. My dad would've killed me if I started acting entitled."

Derek knew Stiles was just using an expression. The others, who had not had the chance to meet the man, probably thought he was being serious. The sheriff he knew was a caring one.  
“My dad taught me that there's more to life than what's in your wallet. He was a ‘don’t love the car for the paint job, love it for the road trip’ kind of guy’.”   
Which was a righteous stance to take, considering the staggering amount of Stiles’ net worth and personal inheritance.   
Jackson, who’d probably been expecting a rich kid vs. richer kid verbal duel, didn’t know how to answer. He just nodded, conceding defeat for the moment, and ducked out of the room, back to the security van.

Stiles, bored of his phone, opened his laptop and was immediately distracted as Boyd hoisted a wooden chest onto the table they were sharing.

Boyd unpacked their utility chest, to clean the books, treat the crystals and fiddle with other items, that needed it. It was usually kept in the van.   
The books were old and in different languages. They were part of what remained from the Hale vaults.  
Erica and Jackson might’ve been better with recognizing enchantments and breaking spells through Laura’s teachings, but it was Boyd’s self-imposed job to take care of the old, wooden chest.

Stiles began by peering over Boyd’s shoulder, commenting on the artifacts. He kept his hands to himself at first, before his twitching fingers got the best of him and he picked up a vial of something.  
Boyd was talking, explaining what everything was, and Stiles was only half paying attention. He had a feeling that Stiles already knew what Boyd was explaining, and was just humoring him with the occasional, ‘oh, really?’ or ‘what’s this do?’. He was using Boyd’s ‘teaching time’ as an excuse to touch everything.

Fantastic. Stiles was at least somewhat versed in magic.  
If that affected Derek’s job…only time would tell.

Stiles put down a vial with a Pagan priest’s little finger and picked up a book with curious fingers. “I’m digging your magic menagerie.” He was running deft fingers along the spines of the ancient spellbook. Opening it and tracing along the worn, aged pages. “Though I guess you can only do so much, since werewolves aren’t very magically inclined.”  
He didn’t know if Stiles could read them or not. And at that point, Derek didn’t know what would be more surprising.  
“It usually doesn’t take a lot of magic to deal with human threats. But having that magical edge has been useful, in the past.” Boyd held out his hands expectantly and Stiles ignored him. “We don’t need to be able to do things a druid can do. We only need to be able to do more than a human.”

Most of what was in the chest wasn’t for practical use; it was for identification. was just used for Runes, sigils, and glyphs. Or for breaking certain enchantments and warding circles. Because, like Stiles had pointed out, they weren’t able to necessarily cast any spells. They could manage some wards, but everything was low level. And it wasn’t for offense, they could only manage defense. Battle magic was another ball game that none of them could play.

“Uh, you guys already do more than humans.” He made a sweeping gesture towards Boyd. “You’re wolves.”  
Boyd stood up slightly and took the book from Stiles’ grasp. He sat back down, satisfied. “Yeah, thanks for the reminder.”  
Stiles mock saluted Boyd. “I’m here anytime.”

Derek was content to let the team entertain Stiles. Ask the questions they needed and keep him preoccupied. Derek could already predict they would be doing a lot of that.

He swiped through the camera feed on his iPad, casually listening to them talk, but was more focused on sounds outside of the room.  
A lot of their jobs consisted of doing practically nothing. More accurately, it was a lot of vigilant-nothing. Vigilant waiting. Listening, watching. But ‘nothing’ all the same.  
He had the feed from the cameras, and was focusing on sound throughout the hotel, but other than that-   
not much.   
There was a lot of trying not to fall asleep, waiting, and of course, gathering as much intel in between lulls of activity as they could.  
“Hey, we’re supposed to be seen and not heard in public so we ask as many questions as we can when we can.”   
They would be grilling Derek later too, when Stiles went to bed. Though there were some things they wanted to know now.

He listened to the pack talk to Stiles and the people throughout the hotel. A woman in the room beneath them was watching a soap opera. A group of teenagers were smoking in the parking lot outside. One of the ushers and a doorman were getting ready to confront them. 

Part of the grilling was to get a better sense of Stiles. Because there he was, their first mutant client, who was also their youngest and arguably most high profile.   
And he was this strange creature. Literally and metaphorically. Mutation unknown because Class A unlisted meant nothing. His mind, his personality was weird and didn’t match his lifestyle. So they asked about his life, and about his business.  
Both types of question would help all of them get a better sense of what they were in for during the contract, as well as the types of people who were going to come after him.   
And, if they could all get along to some degree, that would be a nice bonus that was rarely afforded to them. 

Part of why Derek couldn’t get a true read on Stiles was his inability to see Stiles aura. Sure, his ability was fleeting and unreliable at best, but not even Stiles’ smell gave anything away.

Stiles’ eyes had changed when he’d touched the vials of herbs. With a minute delay between the right to the left, slowly bleeding from pale blue to electric green, and then back again.  
It wasn’t heterochromia. Normal phenotypes were muddled, when it came to actual mutants.  
But the color of his eyes didn’t help him.

Given more opportunities to stare at him, Derek was beginning to think how he could’ve been a pixie. Or some kind of sprite. He was definitely cute enough, though pixies were usually shorter. Though he had that boyish look that pixies had, with a childish nose and Bambi eyes.   
But pixies had a nasty reputation of being mean. But all of the speculation could’ve just been Derek seeing a narrow world view or perpetuating stereotypes.   
Stiles wasn’t necessarily mean. Annoyingly sarcastic? Yes. But Derek wouldn’t say overtly mean, not like he himself was. He was just a harder soul, which was something Derek understood.

It didn’t matter what he was, not really. Derek admittedly just wanted to know. Wanted to know more about their first mutant client. More about the boy who had grown up so much since the night of the fire.

Maybe it was Stiles’ age, or his non-human status, or just his personality that made everyone feel more casual. Or the fact it was their first contract without Peter staring over their shoulders.  
Their first contract without Laura.

Stiles wasn’t a stuffy mobster who wanted their absolute silence. No, he wanted them to talk. He wanted that verbal stimulation. It was clear in the way his words were antagonizing, in his half-smirks and wit. He dragged them, all of them, into being actual people. Into treating him differently.  
Derek could already see those problems forming. But that was something to talk to the pack about later, when they debriefed. 

Stiles’ leg bounced constantly as his eyes and fingers flew across the screen and keyboard of his laptop.  
It was obvious, after monitoring Stiles for hours. The way Stiles’ motor instinctively revved high, the way he absorbed the information around him. Constantly turning over and processing it. Derek could feel his mind working. A steady hum of activity.

Stiles was handling…everything, all of it, better than Derek thought he would. Days ago his father had passed and there he was, smiling and joking and overall, functioning normally.  
Which was disconcerting.   
But he didn’t know Stiles well enough yet to make any certain judgements, he just had his own experiences and a hunch to go off of. On what was going on internally, despite his contradictory exterior.   
If Derek was his age, and in his living situation, going through what Stiles was going through, Derek would not be handling anything well.   
And, after thinking about it, the only conclusion he came to was to watch and wait for more information to present itself. Then he’d act. He could talk to Deaton. Or test his skills and ask Stiles directly.   
He had so many options and the only thing to do was nothing. Just bide his time and observe.

Despite Stiles’ easygoing nature, none of them trusted him for a second. Though their jobs revolved around trust between client and bodyguard, it would be impossible, until they could completely gauge just how high risk he was.  
Derek hadn’t been joking during the question game; mobsters were liars, even to the people charged with protecting them.

He looked up from the camera feed as Stiles stretched his arms over his head, laughing at something Erica had said.  
Derek caught a glimpse of the marking on Stiles’ neck, a scar or birthmark, maybe. It disappeared again as the collar of Stiles’ flannel fell back into place.

 

Over the course of the night, the betas questioned Stiles. Similar information that Derek was going to debrief them on later. But since Stiles was there, it was easier to just ask their own questions instead of using Derek as an information broker.  
They only knew what Deaton had on the drive, a quick google search, a handful of rumors and, intel had Peter supplied, which suited their needs for security up until at that point.  
But it was a long contract, with numerous moving parts. The other information came gradually. Even the information Stiles had shared with Derek back at the office was just scratching the surface.  
The scrubber after Stiles’ contract was going to have their work cut out for them, in six months’ time. 

Their nature prompted an obvious desire to play a verbal game of ‘whodunit?’. But it wouldn’t have just been some kind of hypothetical murder scenario. It was Stiles’ father. They were all naturally desensitized to violence, and that, in addition to a healthy dose of morbid curiosity, made the mystery all the more tantalizing.   
It wasn’t the right time.  
Not when there was such a thick air around Stiles that read ‘do not ask’. It blared loud and clear, despite how forthcoming he seemed. They avoided the subject of his father as best they could. Though questions like, ‘how did he do it? A human, heading a mutant syndicate?’ were enticing.

They were tactless, but not that tactless. They could all guess the bottom line of unpleasantries. Anything they didn’t know that could set the client off meant steady hands when handling, questions meant to probe had to be worded with a certain form of delicacy.   
Especially when said client was an unwilling, underage mutant who had suffered some bad trauma over the last couple months. Over an entire lifetime.  
All new territory meant treading carefully. And what Derek lacked in tact and social grace, he intimately knew at least that much about trauma.

“You ever get into territory disputes with the human mafia? I know our paths haven’t crossed in the time I’ve been with Hale Security,” Isaac asked.  
“Can you really ‘know’? What if we have met and you were wiped and just forgot?” Stiles said, uninterested, as he typed away. “I’m joking. And to answer your question, no. We’re bigger. We know it. They know it. We just stay out of each other’s way. It’s easy not to cross paths if you know where the lines are, my dad made that abundantly clear.” He cleared his throat. “That might change though. So I’ll probably have to deal with them eventually.”  
They’d discussed it during the drive from Albany. The possibility that, with John gone, the humans would try to take over again. Though, with Stiles present, no one said it aloud. 

Isaac was crinkling an almost empty water bottle in his hands, sitting at the table with Stiles, who was on his laptop doing whatever. Derek looked up from-generic app- to Isaac, who stopped the crinkling when met with his alpha’s scowl.   
“You do know having security is actually a good thing.”  
Stiles didn’t look up from his laptop when he answered, "Are any of us ever truly secure?"

Stiles was a kid who’d seen his fair share of security, someone who’d had a slew of bodyguards; the most difficult kind of client. Especially one that had seen a lot of death and failure associated with private security, which meant an overall distrust. Deaton had made that clear to all of them- about what had happened to the ones in the three months before Hale Security was hired, and the history before that. A long, and gruesome, one.

 

From what Stiles explained about the workings of the mutant mob, it was complicated, to say the least.  
The mutants ran things in more of a feudal, nepotism style where mantle was passed to successor, personal desire meant nothing and, blood lineage meant everything.   
Not to mention that Stiles’, even though it was a temporary position, was the head at seventeen years old.

Derek could tell that the betas still struggled with confusion over the syndicate being handed over to an unwilling minor.  
The only reason why it made sense to Derek is because he’d been around so many mutants growing up, seen so many traditions and customs, that something like the Stiles situation made sense. If you factored in the rules the mutants played by, and ignored how humans ran things, it was easier to accept.  
Which Stiles explained. “It’s a rule that was long established before my father, something like tradition. So it doesn’t have to make sense. We play by different rules than the humans. Even more stupid rules.”

It was obvious Isaac wanted to press for more, they all did. More on the enigmatic rules that bound Stiles to Tantum. Or how his father, the previous sheriff of a small town in California, even became the leader of a criminal, mutant empire in New York.   
But it was not the time for that. Now when the shadow of John’s death hung so heavily over Stiles.

“You should just flee the states for a couple months. Go underground somewhere, Siberia or Indonesia. Winnipeg would even be better than here. And don’t come out until Deaton can take over. And you’d save 17 million, plus our weekly fees,” Isaac said.

Under normal circumstances, the head would travel. To other branches, to make deals, and settle disputes in the lower ranks. And organize subgroups and personally deal out punishments. But Deaton didn’t think it’d be a good idea to leave the hub of the syndicate. Traveling added more stressors for Stiles and more variables for Derek.   
New York was the most dangerous place for Stiles because it was the hub and everyone knew he lived there. 

“17 million if you guys complete your contract.” Stiles moved his fingers up and down the chain around his neck. “And that would be admitting defeat. I can’t do that right now.”   
Not after Stiles, and the syndicate as a whole, had taken such a hit, by way of John’s murder.   
“Not with the mundies and sub groups already thinking this syndicate’s place on top is done. I will not be the one to tumble the empire my father built,” Stiles finished.

As the head, he couldn’t just disappear. He had to be untouchable, but not completely unreachable. It was a Catch 22 because although it was dangerous, Stiles had to be there, in New York, in the thick of things.   
The possibility of fragility existing within the syndicate after John was a possibility. Their boss was murdered- it was a matter of honor. A matter of revenge.  
And Stiles’ presence as the new boss would be demanded even more in New York, in his home base. Deaton would work with him on dealing with the mourning and continued maintenance of the rest of the country, but the strength of New York was paramount.  
Stiles would pass out of state and country trips to delegates and keep his even closer ear to the ground.  
Because he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I get that but come on. I know you mobsters are all about ‘honor and revenge’ and it’s all about image, but what does image mean if you’re dead?” Isaac pressed.  
The other betas grimaced. Because John was dead and the only thing he had left, in death, was his image. His syndicate.  
They waited with bated breath for Stiles’ reaction.   
“Yeah, I know it’s stupid. First one to admit that. The truth is, I could be killed. But that doesn’t really matter. Even if I ran, before officially ending my succession, I’d still be hunted. Most likely will be hunted even after I’m out of the game. You guys know how it is. I could be working as a teacher or some other normie job when I’m thirty and still be taken out for some series of numbers I might’ve seen as a fifteen year old.” Stiles shrugged in acquiescence. “You can never truly jump out.” 

And there was an understanding in the room, as Isaac stopped asking questions. Because Stiles was right. You didn’t just grow up in a big syndicate, head it for a while, and then walk away. There was no true ‘walking away’, not for people like Stiles.

The men who had kidnapped him had already done that- taking him off the street in front of his penthouse for something he may or may not have known. And, as much as Derek fought against the thought, Stiles was also right about hiring private security. It was temporary. A half-measure. Sure, the hitmen and contracts and assassins would be extreme until Stiles turned eighteen, but there was the high probability they would continue to come afterward.   
John wronged a lot of people. It was impossible to build an empire without laying it out on the sacrifice of others. And Stiles understood all of that. Already accepted, even at his age, that the chances of him having a ‘normal’ life and growing old happily, were close to zero. Stiles could potentially die for a cause he never agreed to take up, all for his father.

 

Derek watched as Stiles casually rubbed one of his temples, squinting at the dimmed blue light of his laptop screen. A headache possibly-  
There was a chirping in Derek’s ear which peeled his attention from Stiles. Jackson’s voice followed. "Hey, I'm getting static."  
Derek answered into his wrist. "On what?"  
"...Everything? Some of our surveillance feed goes in and out and the mics are picking up other channels or just going silent. I don't know if it'll affect the ear wigs."  
"I've been cutting in and out for a couple of hours," Erica said through the piece.  
Derek closed the case on his iPad. “Jackson- keep trying to patch the issue. I’ll send Boyd down if you can’t.”  
“I can do it,” he responded hastily.  
“And Erica, come back here for now. Until we know the lines are clear.”  
“All right.” There was the sound of wind in the background. She was outside.  
Stiles shut the lid to his laptop and pushed it to the side. "Well, before this shit show is in full swing, I'm giving you a reading." He pulled his messenger bag closer to the table and leaned sideways to dig around, before pulling out a stack of cards, held together by a red rubber band. 

The Tarot deck was touch-worn with a blue dragon insignia on the back. 

"You actually believe in this? You are aware of there being no basis for this actually working, right?" Isaac said.

Talia had stressed the importance of not relying too heavily on things like the Tarot because the future was always changing, and almost nothing was a fixed point in time. She was a heavy believer in fate, but not the fate that a child could foresee by playing a card game or some eighth generation ‘psychic’ could divine through a palm reading.

“To believe in Tarot, you have to believe that there is some kind of grand plan. That things like fate and destiny were not just fairytales parents told their children to make the world less scary. What adults tell themselves to make the world make sense.” Stiles shuffled the cards, smiling at Derek’s disbelief, though he hadn’t voiced it. “So what do you believe in, if not fate?”  
“Nothing happens for a reason. It’s all chaos. Completely random,” Derek answered.  
Stiles shrugged. “Maybe you’re half-right. Not everything happens for a reason but some events are fixed points in time, something has to happen to let other things happen.” Stiles gave him a look, something like indifference. "But, if you’d indulge me, I think you'll be surprised." 

Derek didn’t move to reach for the cards Stiles offered.

So instead, Stiles moved the cards closer towards him. "What, are you scared?"   
Derek didn't react to his challenge. Instead, simply saying: "No."   
"Here, then." After Derek didn’t make a move again, Stiles slid the deck directly in front of him. "You have to touch them." At Derek's skeptical look, he explained: "It's an energy thing."   
Derek took the cards, cocking an eyebrow. The matte texture was oddly soothing.  
"Your sarcastic eyebrows are unappreciated."   
He was about to ask 'how can eyebrows be sarcastic?', when Stiles held out his hand.   
"That's enough." He took the cards and smoothly spread them out in an arc, an oft practiced move, like the dealers in a casino. “Now choose ten.”  
Derek immediately went for the far left but Stiles grabbed his hand, stopping him, holding him there, over the cards, for a moment.  
“No, not like that. Not without thought.” He let go of Derek and hovered a hand over the cards. Stiles closed his eyes and moved his fingers across the arc. “Let the cards reach out to you. Let them speak to you.” He opened his eyes and gestured for Derek to do as he’d done.  
And Derek did. Though it didn’t feel any different.  
He believed the trick held together with the same premise as moving the planchette of a Ouija board. There was no energy telling you what letter to land on, just your brain playing tricks. It was the same tricks being played as Derek’s hand stopped over ten cards. 

Stiles took the cards Derek gave him, without flipping them over.

The only way Derek could describe the spread was two cards crossed on top of each other, with four other cards surrounding. Like a cross within a cross. Then, to the right, a vertical line of four more cards.

"This is the classic ten card spread. Are you thinking of your question?"   
"Of course, Stiles." How will this contract go?   
He narrowed his eyes. "The attitude is unappreciated. Anyway-" Stiles pulled out the card in the center of the cross, the one underneath another card. "This first card is the current situation. It's the key representation of your current predicament and mood." He flipped the card over. 

It was an upside down dragon. A suspicious look projected in its fiery eyes. 

"The Hierophant- reversed," Stiles said. "It's unconventional. But also weak, gullible, and unreliable. There’s a need for unconventional solutions, then.” He huffed’ That’s obvious. This also warns of treachery from colleagues or superiors. You should postpone long term commitments."   
"Someone will betray me?"   
Stiles’ head rocked side to side. "Most likely."   
Derek looked to Boyd. "You planning something?"   
In monotone, he responded: "Yes," without looking up from his iPad.   
"Figures. And what does ‘long term’ entail, exactly? Less than six months?"   
"Saying your commitment to me will only last six months?" Stiles said suggestively. Derek didn't have a chance to reply before the second card was being explained, the one underneath the first. "This card represents your supports. Or obstacles. It’s the greatest immediate challenge you face in achieving your desires." He turned it over. 

There were ten swords, blades intertwined. 

"That is-" Stiles' brow furrowed. "Yikes."   
Derek adjusted in his chair, uncomfortable with his ignorance in the language of the cards. "What do you mean 'yikes'?"   
Stiles continued staring at the card. "It means we're only two cards in and you've drawn the unluckiest card in the deck."   
Now Isaac was leaning closer, stealing glances. At least Boyd was more subtle with his eavesdropping.   
Derek ignored them both. "Elaborate."   
"It means calamity on almost any front- health, finance, romance. It can also mean the ending of pointless commitments and the beginning of a fresh stage in life."   
Derek nodded slowly. "So it could be taken in a positive way."   
Stiles blinked once, then gestured with a hand around them. "I guess but technically anything   
can-"   
"-Then I'm taking it as a positive sign. This is the beginning of a fresh stage in life."   
"That type of thinking could do us in."   
"What? The positive kind? I'm not going to believe I'll fail just because you chanced upon the unluckiest card in the deck.”  
“Which you picked.” Stiles tapped the table. "You forget that your failure will mean the end of my life."   
The others in the room watched the two like a tennis match, heads moving with the conversation. 

Stiles started talking, giving Derek no time to defend himself. He pointed to the card above the first cross. "This is destiny. The likely outcome- if you are to achieve your goal." He flipped it. 

Derek stared at the upside depiction of the devil. Horns, fire, and wings included. 

Stiles huffed, but he was smiling. "The Devil-reversed. This means the end of an ill-started period of delusion. When it's time to crawl from the ruins and begin again. There is still some danger, but if you listen to the angel on your shoulder and ignore the devil on the other, you can find renewal."   
"So everything is going to be OK."   
He set the Devil on the stack of Tarot cards, the same thing he’d done with the previous two. "No, it means if you reach your goal, sans dead Stiles, that's what will happen."   
If this was how the future was going to go, maybe Derek would listen to the cards. "Let's hope I do my job, then."   
Stiles gave him a flash of the finger that told the man what he thought of the sass in his voice. "This fourth card-" he tapped on the right arm of the center cross of cards. "-means foundations. The psychological background of the situation." 

There was an upside down armored knight, riding a dragon with his sword drawn. Stiles actually laughed. 

"Something funny?" Derek asked.   
Stiles straightened the card. "Something like that. The Knight of Swords- reversed. It represents arrogance, recklessness, and misguided aggression. Instead of the courage to do battle if necessary, the Knight has become addicted to the thrill of fighting for its own sake."   
Erica snorted. The other betas had the decency to hide behind their respective tasks.   
Derek felt like he was just let in on an inside joke, directed at himself. "That's supposed to be me? My psychological influences."   
"Yep."   
Derek sat back. "Really?"   
Stiles' expression had relaxed into easy amusement. "Really."   
Derek shrugged, brushing it off. Because that irritated Stiles more than anything. "They're just cards."   
Stiles nodded, going for the left arm of the cross. "Right. They're just cards." He touched the card. "The recent past. The practical causes of the situation." 

A tower. To Derek, it was the least ominous looking card so far. Though, he couldn't see what Stiles could. 

"Shock and revolution. Loss. Uncertainty. Without warning, the old order broke down and chaos reigned. Upheaval and betrayal and failure all threaten to shake your self-belief. It’s a common card for people seeking the challenges of mid-life- as in a midlife crisis, Derek-" he added, his tone light and teasing despite how heavy the words were.   
"I'm a little young for a mid-life crisis."   
"-Although love can create similar havoc at any age. As can politics, war, and business. Such revolutions always lead to clearer understanding in the long term, however."   
Derek turned it over in his mind. "Is this supposed to be my recent past or yours?"   
"Whether we like it or not, our futures are intertwined. That means our pasts are too, by default. Because of my stuff, you're here. In this situation. And because of your stuff, I’m here, at this point in time, with you.”

Their pasts…of course they were intertwined. If you only knew how true that was.  
John's death had brought them together. Laura’s death. The toppling of the old order. They’d both lost people that had made this contract and their, unbeknownst to Stiles, ‘reunion’ possible.

"Now we have the influence. How the outcome may influence how you feel about your life as a whole." Stiles picked up the card. "Five of cups. Unhappiness and dissatisfaction cast a shadow over your relationships. Dwelling too much on the past will only make the situation worse. What you need is a renewal of vision and it’ll come, if you’re patient. In the meantime, resist laying the blame for this situation on those around you. The problem lies within you."   
"So, whatever ending all this has, will be my fault?"   
Stiles nodded, expression thoughtful. "Pretty much."   
Erica spoke up. "No pressure."   
Stiles, with a nod of agreement, reached for the seventh card, at the bottom of the cross. "The Questioner. This is how you see yourself in relation to the problem," in a quieter, sarcastic tone, he added, "This'll be interesting." 

A man sitting atop a throne. There was a dragon wrapped his body. 

"The Emperor. Of course. Power, confidence, strength. He represents earthly power achieved through force of will, including war if necessary. He's stable, wealthy. His sense of justice and dominance over emotion is paramount. He has the necessary attitude to carry plans through to fruition. Sometimes it's necessary to put aside reflection and sympathy and simply act."   
"You have me in a box," Derek said, only half joking.   
Stiles laughed. "Yeah, we'll see how you feel next. This-" he tapped the eighth card, right above the Emperor. "-is the environment. How others see you." 

There was an armored man holding a staff-looking-thing. And another dragon at his feet. 

Stiles lost it when he saw the card. Derek didn't know how to feel about that.   
"This is-" he took a breath. "- this is the King of Wands- reversed." He shook off his amusement, sensing Derek would be anything but after learning the King's truth. "Now remember, Derek, I'm just saying what the cards say."   
Derek definitely didn't feel good about the King and his dumb staff-wand.   
"Reversed, the King of Wands becomes severe, demanding, and temperamental. He's intolerant and aggressive. To the point of being overbearing and destructive. He can signal the danger of a dispute with someone powerful, and also unwilling to see his point of view." Stiles laughed again after seeing Derek's face. "Dude, don't blame me. You shuffled the deck."   
Boyd's eyes were wide from behind his iPad's screen. Jackson and Isaac had stepped out.   
Everyone was pointedly not looking at Derek.   
"So I'm an asshole," Derek said, not caring too much, but maybe caring a little bit. He’d been called a lot worse over his career. And of course, Peter had to fucking show up in the cards. Because who else would the ‘dispute’ be warning about?  
"Unfortunate and completely shocking news. Really, it is," Stiles said, putting the King into the Tarot pile. "Moving on. Now, we have inner emotions. This ninth card is your inner hope and fear. Or any other emotion at play." 

There was a man dangling off the edge of a cliff. A dragon's tongue the only thing keeping him from falling. 

"The Hanged Man," Stiles said, fidgeting with the card. Something unreadable on his face. "Self-sacrifice, originality, and balance. You're at a cross roads. Sacrifices and patience are needed if the right choices are to be made. Submit gracefully and all will be well. Life needs to be achieved from a fresh angle. What may seem like a total distraction to your plans may just take you in a fresh and creative direction. You may feel like you're wasting time hanging around but it will prove to be worthwhile."   
Derek stared at the card, at the man hanging. "How exactly do I keep from plunging to my death?"   
Stiles shrugged. "Be creative. I don't know."   
"Helpful."   
"I try."   
Derek rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "So what's the outcome, then? How does this all end?"   
Isaac had returned from his reprieve with Jackson. Everyone's focus was on the last card, believer or not.   
"Have patience." Stiles hovered his hand over the last card. "This is the result. The most likely outcome." He dramatically turned it over. 

There, upside down, was a skeleton shrouded in black, atop another dragon. 

Stiles swallowed, all jovial amusement gone from his face. He hesitated before taking the card.   
"Stiles?" he asked, after Stiles’ extended silence.   
"This is- this is Death." He put the card back down after staring into the skeleton's cowled face. "Reversed."   
"As opposed to upright?" The direction of the card meant little to Derek.   
Stiles shook his head. "Death upright isn't really about physical death. It's rebirth. But reversed-" he tapped the card's matte surface. "-it's change. Loss. Bad news. Warns of lethargy and inertia. A resistance to change, leading to exhaustion and standstill. This is the unlucky thirteenth card. Total calamity. Absolute catastrophe. It's an ending."   
"That doesn't sound too bad."   
Stiles didn't respond to him, too preoccupied with the meaning. Death. If he had to guess, it was his own. But if it meant failure, true failure, then... Derek's failure meant Stiles’ death. He stared at the skeletal figure. The reaper. 

"Is it too late to change bodyguards?" Stiles asked.   
Derek crossed his arms. "There isn't anyone more capable than me. And my team."   
"Dude. No joke- this is the worst spread of cards I've ever seen. In my entire life.” He paused for effect. “My entire, muttie crime syndicate life."   
Derek scratched at his beard. "'The worst', huh? That has to count for something. New record."   
He stood up from the table.   
Stiles joined him. "Listen, I know you think this is bullshit but it's not."   
Derek gave him a look.   
"OK, not complete bullshit," Stiles mended. 

The lights flickered. Derek looked to the fixture. Must've been the wind. It'd been bad all day.  
Stiles took out his phone to look at the time. His eyes were changing, fading from blue. They were almost grey. "Well, after that truly confidence inspiring spread, I'm going to bed."  
Derek stood. "I'll walk you there."  
"Dude, it's like three feet away."  
Derek said nothing, just stared at him, waiting. Deaton's words and his own instincts were echoing in his mind. Escort him everywhere.   
Stiles rolled his eyes. "Whatever." He grabbed his messenger bag and Derek walked in front of him out the door.

 

Stiles threw his bag back on the bed. “Hey, look, no offense here but dude, we’re so fucked. You’re fucked.”

“I’m not a delicate daisy that is going to take everything you say personally,” Derek said, going to the window to look at the parking lot. The smoking teens were gone.   
Stiles’ mouth twitched into a smirk. “You should know that I accept challenges like that personally.”   
Derek turned from the window. “Not a challenge; a fact.”  
Stiles said ‘whatever’ under his breath, as he unzipped his suitcase on the bed.

Derek took one last glance around the room and headed for the door.   
"Tomorrow is Saturday and I don't have to be in the office for another two weeks, maybe more.” Stiles turned to Derek, who was at the door. “So I’ll be sleeping in."  
Derek, with his limited knowledge of teenagers, knew of the general lack of proper sleep schedule. He didn’t know about Stiles’ sleeping habits, but he could imagine it was nonexistent. If he didn’t have one, Derek would make him have one.  
Derek nodded in fake understanding. "Yeah, no. You're not sleeping past 10."  
"That is so rude.” Stiles’ head tilted, eyes squinting. “How about 11?"  
"10:30 and that's it," Derek said, hand going for the handle and opening the door.  
"Such a slave driver," Stiles mumbled.  
For the first time in a while, as he exited the room, he genuinely felt sarcastic amusement. "Goodnight, Stiles."  
Stiles pitched his voice higher, mockingly as Derek shut the door. "Goodnight, sourwolf."

 

 

Stiles sat down on the edge of the bed, clenching and unclenching his jaw. His hands gripped tight on the edge, white hotel blankets wrinkled in his fists.

There was a rushing in his ears, all the things he’d been avoiding now catching up with him alone in that hotel room. 

He checked his personal phone, with a decision to make. He pocketed it, then dug around in his messenger bag for his wallet. Stiles pocketed that too.

Stiles waited until the door was safely shut to stand and shrug on his hoodie, before going to the bathroom. He turned on the shower and exited the bathroom to check the window. He parted the curtains and touched the frame, it had three panels. Only one, the one on the far left, actually opened. He pressed his forehead to the glass to estimate the drop. Maybe ten feet, with the bushes underneath. Probably more.   
He used to be the champion of hide and seek when he was younger. When he’d play with Konstantin and Altair and the others, trying to search for him at Tantum. And more often than not, he'd win. His skills helped later on, when sneaking out became more of a thing.   
No one in their group could match him.

Stiles hadn’t been lying about to Derek taking challenges personally. And what Derek didn’t know, was that this hotel room was just another challenge. 

How to Escape a Hotel Room When One Was Surrounded By Werewolves: A Guide. 

He had maybe three minutes before Boyd, or one of the others (he hadn't completely gotten a hold of their schedule- yet), switched with Jackson. Isaac would be patrolling. Erica would be in 305. Derek would probably be in 303, or camped outside Stiles’ door.   
That was OK.   
He wouldn’t be using the door. 

The curtains in 303 were drawn, Stiles had made sure. 305 was off duty, Erica was probably in the shower, the probability of the curtains closed were in Stiles’ favor.  
For the best, so they wouldn't see him diving out of a window.

He grabbed a towel and shoved it under the door, which combined with the shower, was as much muffling of noise pollution he could manage. 

Then he went back to the window and slowly opened it, the sound of the shower masking the metal sliding against metal. 

He grabbed the thick cover on the bed, the part where no one should ever touch because they were never cleaned but oh look, he was touching it right now, and threw it out the window, covering the bush and making it appear like some fluffy cloud. Though it definitely wouldn't feel like a cloud when he landed on it ass first. 

He left the shower on. That’d buy him maybe twenty minutes, unless they did some shower check bullshit then he’d have ten minutes at most.  
At least he hoped, because the place he wanted to be was a lengthy walk away. And the use of his Jeep wouldn’t help him, which was parked at an even more inconvenient distance.

He looked down, hearing the sweet siren call of the jump. Now or never.  
He put one leg over the sill, then the other, until he was almost there.   
Now to let go.

Stiles let out a winded 'oomf' as he hit the makeshift cushion. And just like he thought, that shit was painful. Though the panic and adrenal gland took care of that. Stiles recovered quickly, adrenaline pumping through his blood, heat beating in his ears, as he stood up and ran.   
He avoided the van by ducking behind other cars in the lot until he reached the edge, where there was more shrubbery and a brick wall, maybe seven feet tall.   
He made a running jump and kicked off the wall, using his almost nonexistent upper body strength to grab the edge and hoist himself over, one leg at a time, until he jumped again, landing feet first on the sidewalk. He made quick work of bowing into an alley.

He didn’t stop running.


	2. September pt.II

 

Stiles had a headache nestled in his temples. It’d been there for days.  
Months, actually.  
Always with him, like some kind of shadow.

There was a chill in the air that Stiles’ hoodie couldn’t quite keep out.

"Scott. I'm going to die."  
A pause, then: "Already? You just got a new security team," he said in that stupidly, unconcerned tone. Even though he was anything but.  
Stiles scowled at the phone before putting it back to his ear. "I read his Cards. And they weren't good."  
"How 'not good'?"  
Sirens passed in the distance. "I drew the Ten of swords. And Death."  
Scott made an 'ouch' noise, like sucking in a breath through clenched teeth. "Reversed?"  
"Reversed," Stiles confirmed.  
There was silence. Then, "Shit. That's rough, buddy."  
"It's not even really the rest of his team, either. As far as a security team, they're pretty basic. It's their team leader that's the really tough one; I don't think he'll be gone any time soon. By the way, he's super fucking hot. He and I would make one beautiful baby." Stiles hopped over a slashed trash bag. There was silence. “I can feel your judgement through the phone.”

There was a stray tabby walking in pace beside him. It yowled up at him. He knelt down, letting the cat smell his hand before it allowed him a pet on the head, down its back, to the sweet spot at the base of its tail. It meowed in what Stiles took as thanks before taking off under a dumpster.

"At least there's that," Scott said, making an attempt at being positive.  
"You don't even understand, man. If he is the one that's going to cause my death, I don't even know if I can even find it in myself to be too upset by it. He's dangerously hot. But I don't want to think about mortality and shit like that right now. I'm ready to relax. I think I'll be at the Den in about an hour. And you can hear all about my new security team."  
"About that..." He trailed off. Stiles caught a distinctly feminine voice, something like ‘Is that Stiles?’.  
Stiles tripped on a crack in the concrete. "Dude, really? I even snuck out to see you."  
There was a crackling on his friend's end. "I'm sorry too because Allison snuck out before you soooo...You guys should have coordinated this better."  
"She's not the one with the target on her back," he hissed, ducking past a fire escape latter. Who left that down? Fucking dangerous.  
"Then go back to your bodyguard. Idiot."  
He stopped walking. "Buddy. Did you, of all people, just call me an idiot?"  
Silence. Then, "Yep."  
Stiles started walking again. "Fuck you."  
"Actually, I have someone here to do that for me."  
Stiles made a face. "You can't see me but I want you to know I'm making an about-to-puke face. So enjoy your girlfriend. I'm going to hang out with my other, loyal friends."  
"Sorry," Scott said, not sounding too apologetic. “You know Deaton is going to find out? And he’s probably going to make you clean his leech tanks or worse… lecture you.”

Scott was Deaton’s ‘assistant’. In exchange for helping the vet whenever he needed it, he got all his shit paid for (apartment, sports bike, future schooling for enhanced animal veterinary services). He was basically an odd jobs guy for Deaton, or a vet in training, either/or.

“I know getting completely fucked up is what you want. But just not tonight, OK? And not just because I’m with Allison- it’s not safe right now.” There was a pause, Scott was finding the words. “Some other time, we’ll get wasted. I know how you feel. But I need you to be safe. I’ll be seeing you at the funeral, all right? But really, go back to your bodyguard. There are a lot of people gunning for you."

Stiles hung up.

 

When the line disconnected, Stiles wanted to cry. But he didn’t. Because once he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. Deaton and Konstantin and Scott had already witnessed that to the extreme when his father had finally flat-lined and many, many times before that. 

He felt the chain around his neck like a noose. Tightening with each passing hour. Stiles touched the rings through his hoodie.  
His mom and dad's wedding bands. Some of the only things he'd kept after selling everything from the penthouse. 

There were passing sirens in the night as he kept walking.

He needed sleep more than anything, but sleep presented its own problems so he’d just pop another Adderall to keep going. He had to keep going.

Stiles clenched his fists and then flexed his fingers. Rubbing his knuckles, itching to punch something, at least to distract from the tightening around his neck.  
He just needed to breathe. If he could do that, it'd be fine. He’d be fine.

 

He should have listened to Scott, but he was weak.

 

Going from the Upper East Side to Queens meant taking a taxi.

Stiles stuck his arm out to hail a one, cash already in his hand. One stopped and he got in. The driver had a breathing apparatus for the gills on his neck. He didn’t talk much and Stiles was fine with that.

He watched as they crossed Queen’s bridge and the other passing cars in the night.

 

He was dropped in front of the dilapidated fourplex, pulsing with music. He walked through the cracked sidewalk into the untamed grass, to the left, towards the alley in the back. Stiles knocked twice on the basement door before it opened. He was met with blaring EDM and dark lighting.

It was a wide open space as people played pool and danced to the EDM playing on massive speakers. They sat on old crates and smoked, nodding along to the music.

A roll of toilet paper spiraled towards him. Stiles ducked.  
“That’s my face!” Stiles said with more energy than he had. He chucked it back, right in the center of the guy who threw it chest.  
He got a ‘sorry, man!’ as he continued walking.

He made his way to Danny, past the potheads, and the lights and music.

Most people hung out in the basement because that’s where their supplier, Danny, was.

There was a girl with dark hair and a boy with bleach blond hair sitting with him. They were all drinking, hanging on the worn, mismatch furniture that took up the open space.

“Hey, man!” Stiles called, coming up behind him.  
Danny turned, and smiled. “What’s up?” He clapped him on the back. 

Danny had a muted orange glow, like the warmth from a sunset. It wasn’t the color of the aura that mattered, it was what it reminded Stiles of. More importantly, how it made him feel.  
He was human, but Danny was the best kind of human.

"This is Stiles," Danny introduced to the couple on the couch. To Stiles, he said, "This is Violet and Garrett. They just moved here."

Garrett raised his hand in a lazy wave. "Orphan's lot, I guess. Always the new kids."  
Stiles didn't like the girl's, Violet, aura. It was a dark purple. So dark, actually, that it was almost black. And on principle, those with black auras were usually trouble.  
Stiles gave a mock ceremonious bow. "Pleasure to have you at the Weed Den."  
Danny elbowed him in the ribs. "Dude, stop calling it that."  
"I will do as I please."

“There’s a keg in the kitchen,” Danny said. ‘Kitchen’ meant the only functioning kitchen in the fourplex.  
“How old, though?”  
“How much of a miscreant do you think I am? It’s fresh.”

While they bickered, Stiles caught Garrett and Violet watching them in amusement. Garrett and Violet -whose relationship was unclear (really close brother and sister? Dating? Escaped from the same foster home so they're technically brother and sister but dating wouldn't be that weird because they're not blood related?) Stiles did not know.

"OK. I'm going to see the girls."  
"They're upstairs in B. And I have something for you." Danny pulled out a dime bag and pressed it into Stiles' palm. "Here. On the house."  
Stiles looked at the nugget. "Thanks."  
Danny never knew his parents. But he still must’ve known how much it hurt to lose both of them. “Just relax for now, OK? I'm here."  
Stiles hugged him and waved to the strange couple. "Nice meeting you."  
Garrett's smile was out of place. "Likewise."

Stiles climbed the basement steps to the main hallway of the fourplex. The walls had long ago been knocked out, leaving bare studs, just like the basement. He climbed through a hole in the wall to make it to the next set of stairs, that would lead him to apartment B, where Malia and Kira were.

Music faded in and out as Stiles walked from apartment to apartment. An unholy amalgam of 80s synth and death metal, then taking a weird turn to lofi hip hop, then to a ska/ reggae mash up. The only consistency came from the thumping bass from Danny’s equipment in the basement.

Two guys smoking on the steps fist bumped him, after a failed attempt at swatting him on the ass. They were then joined by both of their girlfriends that offered to console him via orgy somewhere in the Bronx with some other people which- was not actually his style.

Stiles left the group and patted his pocket to find a random baggie of pills that someone had slipped him.  
Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth and all that.

 

Out of everyone he interacted with, there were no congratulations. They all knew who he was, what his father did. What had happened. And him gaining a fortune and empire was not something to be happy over. Him walking through the Den, with people who vaguely knew each other- it felt like a procession. They were all mourning for him.  
Mourning him.  
And fuck, Stiles was mourning too.

 

Stiles climbed through a person-sized hole in the wall between C and A where a mundane girl named Heather sat in a five girl shotgunning circle, all of them taking rips from a green bong.  
She solemnly waved to him as it was her turn to suck another girl’s face. He nodded back and continued to B. There was a spray painted ‘8===>’ that he used as a marker for the correct hole in the wall.

The lighting, as in most of units- besides a few odd floor lamps- came from an intact window, light spilling in from streetlamps outside. There were exposed lightbulbs in the ceiling, the glass covers breaking from what Stiles knew to be too many games of indoor kickball. 

The girls were on a beaten couch, sharing a joint. Bean bags stacked on either side of them. A pile of wooden pallets served as a coffee table, old crates were the end stands. 

This was the first time they'd seen him since-  
Since.

Kira and Malia got up as Stiles walked to them, standing to give him tight hugs.

Kira glowed a yellow-orange from her fox fire. Maybe one day she’d get that aura under control, but it wasn’t anytime soon.

He hugged them back wordlessly, anchoring himself to the warmth and comfort they provided before they sat down.  
Malia patted the cushion in between them and he sat. She passed him the joint.

Malia was light purple, like a wild flower he’d seen in the forest once, as a child.

"How are you feeling?" Kira asked, tucking a locke of black hair behind her ear.  
"Like my dad just died," he took a puff and held it. Exhaling a stream of smoke, he said, "Sorry, I'm in a shitty mood."  
Kira touched his knee. "You don't need to apologize."

"Think you're ready for the funeral?" Malia took the joint back.  
He scrubbed a hand over his face. "I don't think I'll ever be ready."  
Malia was taking another puff, it was more than half way gone. "Do you have the eulogy prepared?"  
"Kind of. I have it written and I think I've practiced it about a million times but I never get through the first couple of sentences before crying."  
The kitsune nodded slowly, in that way high people usually did. She asked, "Are you doing all this sober? Walking into the lion's den clean?"  
Unfortunately for him. "Yeah. I can't afford messing up or losing face. And if something does happen, I have to be coherent."  
"We'll be there. All of us, OK?" Malia and Kira were so close Stiles could smell the fruity perfume they used. It was comforting.

Everything was slowing down as they smoked. He felt it in his face first, then his legs.

Deaton was the one handling everything at the morgue and funeral home and funeral in general, even though that was his dad, he should have been the one handling the arrangements. But he couldn’t. The only thing he was supposed to do was read the eulogy and he wasn’t even sure he could manage that.

The last three months with Scott and Deaton, even Konstantin-  
They’d prepared him, and he’d prepared himself.

The patent pending ‘Malia and Kira Pity Party Playlist’ filtered through songs as they sat and smoked.  
Between the change, it gave him a chance to feel the bass from the basement before the next song started.

“If anyone can do this, it’s you.” She sounded so certain.  
Stiles only wished he had her confidence in himself. He snorted. “Yeah, I’m sure.”  
Kira bumped her shoulder against his. "Since that’s in less than two days, how about right now we don’t think about it.”  
Malia nodded and bumped Stiles’ other shoulder. “Actually, let’s do the opposite of think. Let's get you incredibly, completely, shit-faced drunk." She pressed a red Solo cup in his hand, from the crumbling side table.  
Stiles wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. He wanted to blackout. "That sounds fucking fantastic." It smelled like some kind of beer and hard liquor mixture. And was he detecting a note of Mountain Dew? The color was more akin to vomit. He took a drink, hoping it tasted better than it smelled and looked.

Fifteen minutes later he found out through examination that it tasted even worse than it looked.  
Stiles found a solution. He was now holding a can of Coke and bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one hand, with two straws, drinking at the same time. He was cognizant of the fact that he was going to puke later but that didn’t stop him.

He could’ve allowed himself to cry, to break down. He was safe there, between Kira and Malia. But sometimes, when you held something in tight enough, you didn’t know how to let it back out.  
Scott had already seen one break down, when it happened, as Deaton rushed to get a doctor.

But tonight wasn’t about tears. It was about getting trashed and forgetting about his new security team that was going to die. Forgetting about the noise of the flatline and ignoring the upcoming funeral.

The noose was tightening. Panicked tears were soon to follow.

Then the spins started. He knew from experience that it got worse when you closed your eyes because the room spun and screwing your eyes shut meant suddenly spinning rapidly in the dark with no reference point and it was misery incarnate.

But even keeping his eyes open and the room spinning occasionally gave him an escape.  
He didn’t want to think about holding his father’s cold hand. Or his body lying in the morgue-  
He didn’t want to think.

He downed the bottle of Jack like it was Novocaine.

 

The ever-present weight and pressure at his ankle was gone. It only took a look down and half a thought to remember that his knife, as well as his ankle holster, was in his new hotel room. Packed away. He'd taken a shower that morning and forgot to put it back on when he'd thrown it absently in his duffel. He sloshed the Jack and did a mental ‘fuck it’ before taking another gulp through the straws.  
It still tasted bad. But that didn’t matter, not really. Just a means to an end.

If he kept up at that rate, he’d probably need Kira and Malia to be his emotional triage nurses by the end of the night.

Stiles rubbed his eyes, noting Kira’s intake of breath. Even though they’d known each other for years, even she sometimes was caught off guard by the shift of his eyes.  
She was getting emotionally touchy as Stiles was trying to focus on an interesting pattern of graffiti on the wall, willing the room to stop spinning.  
“Get your cabbage patch hands away from me.”  
Kira slapped his arm. “Leave my hands alone!” She said, though she was laughing.

Stiles was fantasizing about pizza when Malia, halfway through another blunt, head pressed back into the cushions, asked, “Where’s Scott?”  
Stiles resisted the urge to gag on another mouthful. “If I said boning the heir to the Argent group, would you be surprised?”  
Malia laughed but Kira was serious when she said: “I’ll call him right now and tell him to get in on this depression party and-”  
“No, Kira, it’s fine. I promise. You know how he gets when he’s drunk. Mushy. And I don’t need that right now.” He’d already got drunk in his old hotel room with Scott, who’d been tasked with partial security duty along with Konstantin for a spell, and that had been bad enough. Stiles was out drinking and Scott was banging the love of his life. They both had their ways of coping.  
And the girls seemed to understand because they didn’t bring it back up.

Stiles plucked the joint from Malia’s hand and took a drag, blowing a haphazard smoke ring. She snatched it back a moment later. “You need to go easy on this stuff.” It was were-weed. It small amounts, it wouldn’t do any damage to a person with no healing factor.  
Stiles waved his hand around. “Whatever.”

“I can’t believe you actually escaped your security to come here,” Malia said.  
Stiles had to pull himself out from staring into space. “Security is a myth. It doesn’t exist, not really.”  
Malia flicked his knee.  
Stiles flinched. “Ow! Watch the were-strength, all right?”  
“Then don’t be idiot and I won’t have to hurt you,” she said flatly. “I’m just saying that this is probably a bad idea.”  
“And Napoleon shouldn’t have tried to invade Russia during its frigid winter, OK, but we’re all hellbent on digging our own private graves here.”

Malia sighed, knowing there wasn’t any winning. “What’s their deal, by the way? The famous ‘Hale’ Security?”

When she said it aloud, ‘Hale’ sounded so familiar but there were whistles and sirens going off in Stiles’ brain that made it hard to focus beyond the present. As in, him in the Den. That was it. Like the sound his father’s machine made when he flat lined (Stiles had spent three months with the rhythmic beeping, he’d gotten used to it, and now without it, he missed it) so the sleuth side of Stiles was locked away under heavy sedation (metaphor) at the moment, every part of Stiles was still itching, something he was forgetting- about Derek and his team and Deaton but all he could think of was -dad dad dad¬.

“I don’t know. They’re different from any security I’ve had.” Though obviously not especially harder to sneak away from.  
“How so?” Kira asked.  
“Well, they’re a pack. But the alpha isn’t even with them. He’s fucked off to Japan for a different contract. Leaving his second in command to lead the other betas.” Malia furrowed her brows. “Weird, right? He’s not even good at it. Like, I’ve seen dysfunction in security teams. And I’ve also seen it in packs. My main example: the Alphas. But this is pretty bad.”  
They winced in sympathy.  
“What are they like?” Kira asked.

And Stiles knew what the girls were doing, knew how they were trying to distract him. ‘If you’re talking about your new bodyguards, you’re not thinking about your dad’.  
He played along. Because it helped.

 

Deaton had come into the office before Derek and the rest showed up. No greeting, just: “Hale Security, the wolves who protect humans.” And when Stiles had said nothing, mostly out of confusion, Deaton continued with: “Sound familiar?”  
Stiles only rubbed his temples, a headache nestling there, choking off coherent thoughts. “Vaguely.”  
“Good, because they’ll be here within the hour. They’re your new security.”  
Stiles had groaned in response. “Deaton-”  
“This isn’t up for debate. You need to have a security detail, at all times.”  
His last team had disappeared about three days prior. Their bodies were found a day later. 

“Boyd and Erica are basically the complete opposite of each other, but they’re together. Like, together together.”  
“Mated?” Malia asked.  
He shrugged. “Maybe. Probably.”  
“Doesn’t that pose ethical issues?” Kira’s eyebrows were raised.

Stiles rubbed his neck. There might be a permanent kink in his neck after spending months sleeping in hospital chairs. “Most definitely. And Jackson is a tool bag. I suspect Isaac is too, but we’ll see.”  
“And what about the head of the team?”

Stiles was used to big guys wearing black suits who communicated solely through grunts and kept out of the way. And Derek was those things, except he was also so much more.  
He had the whole gambit of ‘bodyguard actions’: reacting quickly to loud noises, tracking Stiles’ movements, listening to everything Stiles said and everything said back to him. 

But at the same time, he was more casual than bodyguards from the past. Probably as a way to build rapport with Stiles, maybe because of the age difference. It had to be a part of some ploy to get Stiles to trust him more. Same with the rest of the team- they were all too casual.  
Stiles didn’t mind it, preferred it actually. But they were all mistaken if this would get Stiles to be any more OK with them being his security, as opposed to acting like the stuffy suits he was used to.

Derek had walked in riding thunderclouds, private security suit and scowl making him even darker. But damn, if he wasn’t one of the most attractive people Stiles had ever seen. Konstantin had prickled immediately, on guard.  
If Derek was that scary, what did the actual alpha look like?  
Derek could’ve been an alpha. The way he carried himself, made Stiles think at first that he was the alpha. But there was an uneasiness between the man and the rest of the betas. Like a disconnect. Probably since the other alpha had only recently been killed.

Derek was a hard ass- that was for sure. But Stiles had an incurable case of ‘not giving a fuck’ that had only gotten worse over the last couple of months so he poked at Derek anyway. And to his surprise, Derek had poked back. And that was completely new. The security he was used to put up with just enough of his shit, because as long as he was physically safe, it didn’t matter what he did.  
He’d been the first one in a long time to treat Stiles like a person. And not some- thing. A thing to be sequestered and isolated and handled.

And Derek was surprisingly quick.  
Stiles recounted the tour and Tarot session. “And then, Kira, I swear to god, he sassed me.”

But everyone had a hamartia and Derek’s was that he was a dick, and from what the cards said, a huge one. 

“He’s really hot. Like, ridiculously hot.”

He was joking with Scott, but in all seriousness, it wasn’t that great- he was going to be manhandled by a werewolf sculpted by the gods. That was if Derek even made it that long to continuously have to grab Stiles. If he did, he looked like he’d do it a lot. Pretty impatient for someone whose job relied on being patient. ‘It’s easy to manipulate this person’s body by grabbing them, rather than verbally communicating’. The ‘strong, silent’ type of bodyguard was usually like that, in Stiles’ experience. In the game of life or death, niceties and social boundaries meant little to the people paid to keep you alive.

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ here?” Kira said.  
“I don’t like his aura.”  
“Don’t like it because it’s bad or just something you haven’t seen before? Because I remember the first time you met me, you said I was ‘too fire-y’ and you didn’t like it because you’d never seen it before,” Kira pointed out.  
He groaned. “Must we use what I said when we were ten against me?” He exhaled. He reallyyyy wanted pizza. “It’s just…there’s something about him.”  
Malia bumped his shoulder with hers. His cue that she wasn’t up for playing the pronoun game. “About who?”  
Stiles shook his head. “Derek. I think maybe I know him. Or knew him.” Maybe from another life. Maybe even haunted his dreams at some point. Those eyes that followed Stiles, dark. But so familiar. Green, vibrant and deep as the forest. That face…as strange as it seemed, Stiles had known, once upon a time. But it had been younger and kinder. Not like Derek was now- that angry man that had been hurt and loved and now lost.  
“Didn’t you say that Tantum had been helping out the Hales? Maybe you saw him in a file or something, or when you were hiding under your dad’s desk during a meeting and saw something a few years ago?” Kira asked.

Maybe she was right. But it felt more important than that. Like when you’re at the grocery store without a list and you swore you wouldn’t need one because it was only four items long but now you’re on the fourth item and you can’t remember, even though it’s the most important.  
Or it maybe wasn’t.  
Stiles’ head had been weird for a long time and the alcohol/ weed combo wasn’t helping. He’d dig into this Hale mystery later.

 

Parts of his body were numb and tingly and warm. He was already a clumsy person but his limbs extended farther than he thought every time he moved.

Heather, from before, had stumbled into the space, high out of her mind. She said something like, “Time to go.”  
Malia sat up straighter. “Heather, what’s going on- oh.” She had completed her walk to them, promptly landed on the floor knees first, cheek on the couch’s arm rest, lower half of her body right up against Malia, and passed out.  
Malia poked her face; eliciting a groan and a snore. Her prognosis: “She’s fine.”

Which gave Stiles an idea. “Hey, Kira- do you have a marker?”  
“Uh, sure?” She bent over to rifle through her bag on the floor and successful in her hunt, passed Stiles a magic marker.  
Getting up to crouch on the ground next to Heather’s head, he whisper-chanted, “Don't pass out when there are markers about.” He drew a classic villain mustache and sat back to admire his handiwork. Did it make him an asshole? Yes. Did he care? No.

Heather woke up about five minutes later, to her girlfriend waiting outside to pick her up.  
“Bye-Bye,” Stiles waved. Kira suppressed a giggle.

He was laying with his back to the couch cushions, feet over the back, head hanging off the side, smoking a joint.  
How do you know which way is up when your whole world is turned upside down?

Malia crouched down in front of his face and took the joint for a puff.  
He righted himself, the world moving in sloshes of molasses as he did. He’d turn his head, and the world would follow after a second. Like lag in a video game. FPS down to 5. 

Malia sat back down to nuzzle Kira's shoulder.  
They had switched seats within twenty minutes. Stiles was trying put as much physical distance between him and their borderline-petting, sitting on the opposite end of the couch. Weed made the werecoyote cuddly. Both of their faces had soft, easy smiles. Neither minded the coyote's touchy nature.  
Stiles lifted his Coke, only to find it empty. And no way was he going to drink straight Jack. Thankful for the excuse to leave, he stood up and said, "I'm going to fill up why you two wrestle your hands back from each other's clothing." He ignored the two birds flying his way with a relaxed laugh.

He tried to reason with himself. You’re perfectly sober. You act like other people. You’re not shwasted. He laughed to himself, had to because no one else would. He talked to himself, his voice funny in his own ears. Lower, slower; a voice that wasn’t his.

His steps were clumsy and uncoordinated; more so than usual. The floor was uneven. Always lower than he thought it was. His body extended beyond points he wasn’t familiar with. Every movement unsure and too far spreading.

 

Stiles’ intention had been to go get more of- whatever he could find, honestly. But, in a building with a confusing setup, he stepped through the wrong hole in the wall. Instead of to the only semi-functioning kitchen on the first floor, he entered a sparse room with a single, worn couch.  
The only occupant was a guy, hit back turned to Stiles, and a Bluetooth speaker playing that old one hit wonder by Gotye. And that would’ve been the end. Stiles would have just lit a cigarette and left. 

Those were his intentions. But when he pulled out his pack and then patted his pockets, there was a crucial detail that made Stiles stay.  
Stiles’ lighter was in his luggage. At the hotel.  
He pulled his last cigarette from the crumpled pack in his back pocket and discarded the box on the dirty floor because fuck a trashcan.

He heard a match being struck, saw the smoke.

So like a moth to a flame, Stiles approached the coach. “Got a light?” He asked.

The guy turned around to look at Stiles and oh fuck- the guy was attractive. “Ah shit, I lost mine.” He stared at Stiles with a glint in his eye, then took a drag on his cigarette. “And that was my last match.”  
Stiles understood this. This game.  
“Here, then.” Stiles leaned over the back of the couch, one hand braced against the dark, worn leather and the other with two fingers holding the cigarette to his lips. He was above the guy, which made him have to strain up, his adams apple bobbing as Stiles moved closer. He closed his eyes as he pressed the end of his cigarette to the burning orange end of the other guy’s. 

Stiles pulled back and took a drag on the now lit cigarette. “Thanks.”  
“No problem.” The guy did the same, taking a drag as he stayed half-turned towards Stiles. Motioning with his cigarette, he asked, “Join me?”

‘No, thank you’, he should’ve said.  
But he gave in so easily.

He was weak.  
But what was wrong with that?

He stumbled his way through an introduction but Stiles wasn’t paying attention to what was being said. The guy’s green eyes were the center of Stiles’ focus- a definite weakness. It didn’t matter who he was- Stiles honestly didn’t care. He felt warm and blissfully numb and he just wanted someone to distract him and forget about the million things that were horribly wrong and awful and just be. 

Stiles took a long drag and looked properly at- whatever his name was. Hot Guy. No, something generic and fratboy-esque. Carter. He looked like a Carter.  
Sun tanned skin and dirty blonde hair, the guy was a medium but was wearing a small sized t-shirt, showing every gorgeous rippled of muscle. Unfortunately, he was a mundy- Stiles could tell that much from his dull aura; taupe, like a doctor’s office. Not everyone was perfect. But Stiles could make it work.

Stiles shrugged, then: “Sure.” He walked around the couch and properly looked at what Carter had been gesturing at, on the coffee table in front of him.  
He was laying out rails with his rich parents’ credit card, next to a rolled one hundred that was probably only about three percent of his weekly allowance.  
Carter pointed again with his cigarette, at a rail of white powder. “Do you partake?”  
Stiles bit at his bottom lip, contemplating how to proceed. “I might.” 

Because when it came down to it, Stiles’ brain usually contained a few voices that dictated his actions.  
‘No, don’t do this’.  
‘Yes, do this, it’ll be fun’.  
And the rational voice was drowning in alcohol.

Stiles took a seat on the coffee table in front of Carter, next to the product and stamped out his cigarette on the table, in lieu of an ashtray, and then tossed the bud to the floor. 

“What is it?” If it was coke, he was out-  
“Roxies,” Carter answered.

Shit. Of course, one of the ultimate rich kid drugs. Looked like the universe decided this was the direction his night was going to go in. Probably not laced with anything considering the guy had been going at it and he was fine.  
Probably.  
Stiles dragged his pinky finger through it. 

He watched with hungry eyes as Stiles licked his finger, then Carter put out his cigarette in the same manner Stiles had.  
“It’s pure,” Stiles concluded. He recognized Argent product when he saw it, tasted it. It was the same as Roxicodone for mundanes but with a higher price tag, just for mutants.  
Carter smiled wide with straight, white teeth. “Only the best. So will you join me?”  
Stiles pretended to think for a moment, though he’d already made up his mind after seeing those pretty green eyes. “Of course,” he answered.  
Kira and Malia could miss him for a bit longer. 

Stiles moved to sit next to him on the couch. They took turns using the bill to snort a line. It was smooth.

Their legs had started out inches apart, but slowly moved closer, like pulled by magnets. He was overly conscious of the way Carter’s knee just barely touched his.

 

Carter tasted like cigarettes and booze and bubble gum that he’d probably spit out only moments before Stiles walked in.  
And Stiles wanted more. Wanted to be lost in it. 

Time became something that wasn’t linear. An incoherent thing measured by music and changing tempo. And Carter’s hand in Stiles’ shirt, cold fingers trailing over his spine. Fingers that kept dipping dangerously low to Stiles’ waist line. He wouldn’t have cared if Carter went for it- just as long as the distraction continued. Just a little something to keep his mind off all the shit he didn’t need to deal with- orphan orphan Your Dad Is- he bit the guy’s lip and in turn received a more forceful tongue, further invading his mouth.

You got diamonds in your eyes tonight- the speaker sang.

They’d been making out long enough for the pleasant buzz of euphoria from the roxies to kick in, which was should’ve been his cue that it was time to detach and go back to the girls, but his mind was quiet which was all that mattered, really.

Dazzle me, dazzle me, dazzle me with gold-

 

Kira stumbled in through the door way. “Stiiillless,” she dragged in that ‘smoked one too many bowls’ kind of way. “Dude. Come back to us.”

Stiles groaned into the kiss. Not from the pleasure of it, it was more of a reluctant frustration. He pulled back only slightly, which made Carter focus on attacking his jaw ears with kisses and tongue. To Kira, Stiles said: “Give me a second.”

She made some sounds that might’ve been words and stumbled back through the doorway.

Stiles patted the guy on the thigh. “You heard the lady. Later, dude.”  
He stood up to follow where’d Kira gone, until the guy grabbed Stiles’ hand and managed to turn Stiles to face him and tugged him down, right into his lap.

His new, nameless friend caught Stiles’ neck and jaw, twisting him into a wet kiss. The guy’s hand dipped into the waistband of his pants, caressing the cleft of his ass with ungraceful movements. Drunk hands incapable of anything but.

“Stay with me.” Followed by the guy leaning to kiss Stiles again. Had to give the guy credit. His technique was good. Stiles could feel the hard line of the guy’s dick through his ripped skinny jeans, slowing grinding up into Stiles’ ass.  
Stiles was too far gone to get it up, which diminished the allure of staying. 

Stiles backed up, pressing into the hand on his lower back and then pressing his own palm into the center of the guy’s ridiculously firm chest, fighting against every part of his teenage hormone ridden body, screaming for him not to.  
“Sorry. This has been fun. Really.” And this time, when Stiles picked himself off the guy’s warm lap (and hard dick), the guy let him go.

There were no hard feelings as he said, “We should do this again sometime.”

 

“What were you doing?” Malia scented the air. Then, knowingly: “Who were you doing?”  
“He was making out with some hot guy.” Kira threw an arm around Malia’s shoulder. “But we’re more fun.”  
And because he wanted to see his way out of the conversation, Stiles said, “Shit, I didn’t actually get a refill. I’m going back to find the promised keg so hang tight.” Even though he just found them again, he set out once again to find the kitchen.  
“You better not take any detours and start making out again,” Kira called after him.

Hopefully the next refill would make him black out.

 

He walked back the original path, turning right this time at the graffiti of the purple octopus holding a gun and descended, until he could get to the only functioning kitchen- which was on the main level in unit C.  
He had a firm grip on the bannister as he made his way downstairs. The world was tilting on its axis. Everything was slow, moving through cold molasses. Or Jello. Whichever.

“Fuck Lemony Snicket, what Series of Unfortunate Events have been through, you Eldritch ghoul?”  
As Stiles descended the stairs, his eyes began feeling too scratchy in his head, like they didn’t quite fit there: the feeling he got when his sclera turned black. He looked away from the weretiger drunk on wolfsbane wine, who he’d seen a time or two in the Den. Ashely, maybe.  
“It’s been a rough few months.” His skin tingled- he knew he must’ve looked like a corpse- too pale skin, dark circles, pronounced veins.  
“Well, good luck in your endeavors, Edward Scissorhands-looking mofo,” she called as he walked away, no malice in her tone.

 

The kitchen took up most of the main level in C. There were two entrances: one that led from a little hallway, in front of the door to the basement. The other perpendicular to the actual ‘front’ door to the apartment, that led to the outside alley.

The keg was in the kitchen. Which had a disturbingly pale girl on the counter having her face sucked off by a boy with russet skin.  
When he entered, they stopped for a second, then continued. The keg was next to her bare foot. Which, ew. Tetanus was a thing.  
As he stepped closer to the tap, the boy helped her climb off the counter and they left to find a new make out spot. Neither looked at him on their way out. 

He crouched to fill his cup.

There was a dark reflection on the keg, approaching fast. He didn't have enough time to turn around, or enough brain function, so he put his hand at the level of his eye and hoped for the best. 

Something thin, strong, and fucking hot wrapped around his wrist, blocking his face and neck. He pulled, trying get to the wire away from his face. His attacker lost balance, giving him the head way to slip from the metal noose.

Stiles lunged sideways and spun around. Violet was there, slightly hunched over. The room was tilting. He pulled himself up using the counter. Trying to back away from her cauterizing necklace. "What the actual fuck?" 

"Haven't you heard? There's a price on your head." She held the wire like a chain. Taunt, and out in front of her.  
“You’ll, uh, have to be more specific, there are a lot of ‘prices’ on my head.”  
"One of the biggest hits we've ever gone after," Garrett said, coming from the second kitchen door. He had a knife. The trashed island separated them. 

Stiles was literally backed into a corner.  
Come on, think. "You know; this is the sort of thing my group can help you with. At risk youth is the type of people we love recruiting.” Use your words and talk your way out of this. “We can give you a fresh start." 

The lights flickered on and off rapidly. Power surge, the couple must’ve guessed.

“We’re not mutant exclusive, you could join us too, even though you’re human.” Stall, stall-  
stall for what? You left your security team. Everyone in the house is either drunk or high or both and if anyone did come in, they'd just be killed too.

Violet tightened the wire, ready for another go at decapitating Stiles. His wrist was bleeding; the burn had been enough to hurt really freaking badly but not enough to staunch the blood flow. It'd cut halfway through his hoodie sleeve. The pain was lessened by the blanket of alcohol and adrenaline flooding his system.

The air in the room was getting colder. The open windows let in the wind that was quickly becoming violent.

The couple paid no mind.  
"Thanks, but no." Garrett looked to Violet. "We like this a little too much to stop."

She nodded to him. The smile they shared was grossly sexual and Stiles really hoped this wasn't getting them off, that's fucking nasty.

There was a commotion outside. The sound of cars pulling up and cars speeding away. Yelling, panic. If there was ever a time for the police to show up and be useful for once, it was now.  
Violet craned to see what was happening outside.  
Garrett was looking from Stiles, to the windows and billowing tattered curtains, and finally to Violet. "Cops?" He asked.  
She shook her head. "There aren't any sirens. Probably some junky."

Stiles slid a foot against the ground, pushing away trash and debris. From the three broken windows, there had to be some glass.  
There wasn't.

Garrett walking towards Stiles, to the island. "Perfect. How does this sound: 'Son of Recently Deceased Crime Boss Found Dead in Meth House/ Offed by Junky?"

Stiles took a breath, readying himself. "They'd never print that; too wordy. ‘Mutant Mobster Murdered’ sounds so much better, doesn't it? Newspapers love their alliterations." He wasn't going to just let Bonnie and Clyde kill him.

"You think you're so funny. Try laughing when your head's cut off-"  
Water started pouring from the ceilings.

"What the-? This place actually has working sprinklers?" Violet yelled over the water, and thumps and shouts throughout the fourplex.  
Perfect. If I start screaming now, I’ll just blend in with everyone else screaming because their phones just got destroyed. 

"Go check it out!" She screamed at Garrett. He took off through the door he entered to find out what was happening.

Now!

Stiles rushed at her, using the counter for leverage. He caught her around the middle, sending them both crashing to the wet floor. Within seconds, both were soaked. After a struggle, he arose on top and straddled her, trying to wrench the death necklace from her hands. It burned his fingers. She punched him in the face and wailed on every part she could reach, spitting out, “I’ll kill you!”  
“Not if I kill you first.” Using her hair, he smashed the back of her head into the ground.  
She was unconsciously instantly. 

Stiles rolled off of her, falling to the ground as he caught his breath and held his stinging, bleeding fingers and wrist. He panted and his muscles shook. 

Stiles needed to get away but his legs weren’t exactly cooperating. He got his body off the ground and scooted back on the wet ground. His head buzzed, water falling into his eyes. Further muffling his already narrow-world.  
His narrow-world including the one thought: run.  
He almost had his legs under him, almost gained enough momentum to get up completely, despite the room spinning.

But the pouring water not only made it too slippery for Stiles to stand up, it also covered the sounds of someone else’s footsteps. Splashes drowned out in the water.

He was in the process of getting up when an arm under his chin cut off his breathing. A knee jabbed his back, right over his spine, pinning him and preventing escape.

Stiles clawed at Garrett’s arm right around the time his nose started bleeding. A blinding headache nestled in his temples but he kept up the fight. He scraped flesh and felt the grime of skin and blood under his nails. A feeling Stiles was familiar with, both on the giving and receiving end.

He tried to brace his knees on the ground but gaining any kind of traction on the ground was impossible.

The arm under Stiles’ jaw crushed his neck, while the other squeezed across his clavicle, like a roller coaster restraint. Garrett pulled Stiles’ neck and chest backwards, while pushing him forward with that knee sinking further into Stiles’ back.

He’d be passing out from oxygen loss soon, he could feel it-  
Black flowers bloomed in his eyes.

The water finally stopped, whatever ancient tank it had been stored in depleted. 

And a second later, Stiles could breathe again.

He fell forward. The arm that caught him was the only thing saving him from the floor.

His head swam from the alcohol and hypoxia. He coughed. Blood ran from his nose.

The arm disappeared and Stiles was left on the ground as noise came from behind him. He couldn’t hear properly, like someone had stuffed cotton in his ears.

He gained the strength to turn his head, towards the noise.  
What he saw was Garrett, crumpled on the ground as a pool of blood surrounded his lifeless body.

 

Derek's suit jacket was stretched taunt across his shoulder blades, hunched over with labored breaths. He was hunkered down, ready to jump at anything that posed a threat.

Derek turned to Stiles, the dark jacket of his suit shining wet in the light from the street lamp outside.  
His normal features were distorted in that half-wolf, eyebrowless, pointy eared way, claws out at his sides. Elongated canines flashing in the light.  
His eyes were red.

Stiles, through the haze of pain, was shocked enough to croak out: "Shit. Dude. You're an alpha?" His head was swimming.

Derek's eyes, red eyes, focused on something behind Stiles. There was a roar and he was a blur of movement.

Stiles turned to see Violet, arm ready to throw a knife. Derek's claws were in her neck. He ripped out. She fell, dead before she hit the ground.

Derek's breathing was still heavy; he was still growling. Hands spread out with claws at his sides.

He shook his head, like he'd walked through a spider web. Low growls rolled out of his throat.  
Then he was turning to Stiles. His face was becoming more human. Eyes no longer red but his breathing was still labored. Something about him was feral.

Derek wiped bloodied hands on his pants. "Like I said, I'm not just ‘some were’." His voice was still low in that gravelly kind of way, slurred the slightest bit by sharp teeth and saliva.

Stiles coughed, tasted blood. Red bloomed across his neck, radiating pain of bruises. He ran his tongue along his lip, a cut there bled sluggishly, joining the blood from his nose, joining in a stream that ran down his chin. He spit out the blood in his mouth, knowing that it didn’t take much to swallow to get sick. He was already nauseous.

 

 

 

Derek felt his bones shift back into place as he rolled his shoulders. It’d been a close call, he’d almost lost it. He moved to help Stiles; he could throttle the kid later

The bloody, gore pond on the floor was not sitting well with Stiles. Derek was crouched in front of him, one knee of the wet ground. He made the executive decision to manhandle Stiles out of the room to sit somewhere else, trying to keep the sight away from Stiles, just in case he fainted from it all.

“Can you stand up?”  
And Stiles nodded, but Derek didn’t think he actually heard the question. 

Stiles was reacting to the gore on the wet floor, getting paler and shaking. Derek hoisted him up. “Don’t pass out.”  
Stiles nodded vaguely.

“Oh, fuck.” Stiles used his undamaged hand to rub at his back. “My spine.”

But Stiles’ heart didn’t quiet. “Don’t look,” Derek said.  
He sounded like he was fighting the urge to get sick. Swallowing, and pointedly keeping his eyes away from the blood, said, “Definitely not looking.”

Isaac met them by the exit. He watched as Derek deposited Stiles on an overturned keg against the wall.

“Two hostiles down. Assessing Stiles now,” Derek said into his wrist.  
“The building is clear. We’re scaring everyone into the main street. Isaac has your back,” was Erica’s response over the ear piece.

“Any commotion at a drug house is bad commotion. The only people still here aren’t afraid of the police so good luck getting them to run,” Stiles mumbled unhelpfully.

Derek examined Stiles, because it was either back to the hotel or a hospital. Plus, keeping the injured boss away from other potential members, as the other betas cleared the alley behind the building, would be the best escape plan.  
He knew Stiles’ injuries wouldn’t kill him, but the severity was still unknown.

Derek crouched in front of him again, one knee on the ground. 

Stiles’ hands were both covered in blood, one actively bleeding. Derek saw to the wounds, some kind of burn, if he’d had to guess.

A Newtonian, pinkish mixture covered them both. Blood and stale water. Adding to the murky nature of the exact extent of damage and Stiles’ own discomfort. He needed a shower for Derek to see what was truly going on.

The air carried the copper sting of blood from Stiles’ wounds, mixed with the blood from the bodies of his would-be murderers in the next room. 

There were bruises on his face. Derek wanted to reach out and touch them but stopped. 

Stiles didn't seem to notice his hesitation. He looked at the state of his fingers and wrist. The sleeve was saturated in blood and water and cut in half. "Not all of us have a healing factor." 

Stiles talked, to distract himself more than anything, Derek guessed. “You think the whole bloody and beat thing works for me? Makes me look tough, huh?”  
Derek wiped at the blood on Stiles’ face. A split lip, some cuts and bruises. “I think you have a concussion.”  
Stiles shook his head. “I’m good. Didn’t hit my head.”  
Derek moved his fingers to Stiles’ wet hair, checking for cuts or blood. But it seemed like the one place he managed to protect was the most important. 

Derek would check for signs of a concussion later. He listened for the creaking of broken ribs, for the whistle of a damaged trachea. Too many people running, dripping water, betas chattering in his ear ‘clear, clear, I’m sending people away’, too much to focus-

Stiles rubbed at the blood and grime on his face with a damp sleeve, streaks of bloody-pink water ran down his cheeks. His legs were shaking from the adrenalin.  
“Shock is a hell of a drug,” Stiles said.

He wanted to get Stiles moving and gone from the house before the shock wore off, before he’d feel all of his injuries. Or maybe he was drunk enough that it didn’t matter. He reeked of a distillery.

The girl had used some kind of cauterizing, faux-detcord, as far as Derek could tell. With one fluid movement, he unknotted his black tie and pulled it through his collar, tying it tightly around Stiles’ hand and wrist. Stiles’ face scrunched up, because Derek was being as ‘gentle’ as he could afford to be, which wasn’t very much.

Tears stung at Stiles’ eyes. Derek had to admit the kid was made of tougher stuff than he’d first thought; with a burn like that, Derek would have expected him to be losing it. But he didn’t. He just held his arm to his chest. 

“That’ll be good enough until we get back to the hotel and I can clean it up. I’ll call Deaton and have him look at you and he can say whether you need to go to the hospital or not-”  
“Please, not Deaton.” Stiles groaned. “Come on, I’ve done this enough to know I don’t need stitches or grafts or anything. I just need a shower and a med kit.” 

Stiles was right. It wasn’t bad enough to warrant anything Deaton could provide, except maybe a lecture.

And Derek, half because Stiles was right and half because he didn’t want to have to tell Stiles’ guardian, Derek’s boss, on one day of the contract that Stiles had been able to sneak away and get hurt.  
Well, telling wouldn’t be the huge thing- it’d be facing Deaton, as he cleaned up his godson’s injuries and would have Derek explain to him how he could have let this happen-  
the night was already bad enough. He would deal with Deaton after they weren’t in some drug house, surrounded by two dead bodies and a soaking wet, bleeding Stiles bleeding. 

Derek was confident enough in his own first aid training.

He prodded at Stiles’ chest, at his face and neck. Stiles was flinching away like kids did when they were fed up with the doctor checking them.  
But his nose and lip had stopped bleeding.

Derek waited for the all clear from the betas as Stiles was catching his breath, patting his pockets for his phone, looking unconcerned for the most part about his own injuries.  
Shock, definitely.

“How did you know I was here? Is your alpha tracking that advanced?" His voice was trembling though.  
"Yes," Derek deadpanned. "For the most part, I followed your scent. You left behind four footprints that helped. Then all I had to do was listen for the sound of an idiot's heartbeat through the city."  
Stiles was rubbing at his head when he asked, "Wait, seriously?"  
"No," Derek said flatly. "A friend of yours, Scott, texted Deaton and then he called me." He remained crouched in front of Stiles. Blood smudged across his neck, mixing with the forming bruises there.

Stiles pulled out his miraculously unbroken personal phone from his back pocket, lifting his butt off the keg, and with his uninjured but almost equally bloody hand, dialed a number and put it to his ear, eyes averting Derek's. "Hey, it's Stiles. I need a dinner reservation for two. You know that place in Queens?” A confirmation. “... Yeah... I'll have someone transfer the money. Just get here. Two bodies." Stiles hung up. To Derek, he said. "They're sending people over. It'll be about an hour." His head was pounding in time with his heart. "Amazing how almost being assassinated makes you sober up, huh?”  
Stiles was so clearly not sober. But whatever he wanted to tell himself.

Derek took the phone out of Stiles’ hand and pocketed it. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”  
Stiles didn’t protest at his phone being taken away, just pouted. Then, “In my defense, I actually do.” Stiles was rubbing at his eyes, which were back to a light amber. His pupils were dilated; blown wide from emotional arousal and whatever else circulating in his system.

Derek could smell the alcohol on him. And he'd been smoking. He smelled like other people Some human male. Another were, and if he had to guess, he'd say coyote. The two humans who’d tried to kill him. He carried the burning smell of adrenaline. The metallic scent of blood.

"You better not have been mean to Danny. He's good."  
Derek was dragging Stiles more than Stiles was actually walking. “If he was the human kid, then the moment I kicked in the door and identified myself, he stepped aside and said you were here."  
"Where is the loyalty?"  
"And the other kids either ran before Erica and Isaac got to them or ran when she growled at them. Boyd and Isaac were doing the same, in case these two were in a bigger group.” Until Isaac, closest to Derek, joined him to assess Stiles.  
“They aren’t.” Stiles thought a moment. “Weren’t.”  
Derek ignored him.

A confirmation echoed in his ear from Boyd: “Hey, uh- people are trying to get back into the house.”  
Derek, talking into his wrist, said, “Time to go. Run interference while I get him to the car.”  
“Risk assessment?” Isaac asked, who’d been pacing the hallway and kitchen, watching the other exits and entrances while Derek had been with Stiles.  
Derek glanced at Stiles’ visage. “Done. We’re leaving.”

He pulled Stiles up completely with a hand on his upper arm, supporting his weight. “I’ll have Jackson and Boyd stay behind to make sure it’s done. We’re going back.”  
“What’re you doing? We have two dinner reservations-”  
“Now,” Derek growled, tone leaving no room for argument.  
Stiles grumbled something along the lines of ‘pushy asshole’ but he stopped pulling away.

 

Isaac followed the two of them out of the door.

 

The betas, as per Derek’s instructions, were leading (scaring) the vagrants out of one entrance on the first level of the complex, on the opposite side Stiles and Derek, past the basement entrance and back to the main street, away from the alley. 

 

Derek’s wolf manifested, following them. Not walking by his side but walking on the other side of Stiles so that Derek and his wolf formed a protective barrier around the injured teen.  
Is that what Laura had to deal with, with every client? A fiercely protective wolf with a will of its own?

Bodyguarding involved a lot of pulling and pushing and shoving and leading and following and rough hands on various parts of the body. Derek felt the wet fabric and the skin and the muscle and the bone beneath that. Sturdy, but breakable. So strong, but so weak. A slight tremble, or a hum from his high energy motor.  
Stiles tensed up minutely as they exited the building. He should’ve been used to being manhandled by security- rough hands trying to protect him.

Derek escorted him out, a firm grip on his bicep to ensure compliance. With Stiles that close, his scent was overwhelming. Suffocating Derek in that sweet way. Filling his senses. He should've smelled awful to him; considering what he'd just gone through. But he wasn't put off. It was the opposite. He was tempted to rub his nose at the bare skin of Stiles' nape. Scent him, remember every delicate note of fragrance. He resisted, because that would be wildly uncomfortable for the both of them, much to his wolf's chagrin, who didn’t like the scent of the other boy clinging to Stiles.  
But even just having the urge to bury his face and breathe him in was a little unsettling.  
Maybe it had to do with whatever Stiles' mutation was. Peter would probably know more about it- but seriously, fuck that guy. Derek would handle this his own damn self.  
Though he didn't know what 'this' was exactly. Maybe his wolf was reacting to Stiles' hormones, he was a teenager after all.  
Whatever it was, there had to be a reason. Because no one should smell that good. 

 

They passed Erica on the way out. She nodded to Derek, following them to where the Mercedes and Escalade were parked.

The frustration the betas radiated was palpable. They whispered among themselves. ‘Great, not Derek is going to bitch us out’ but they held their tongues as Derek approached, Stiles in tow. 

Stiles flung out his uninjured arm and put on a lopsided grin. “Hey, thanks, rescue party.”  
“Don’t worry, we’re your bodyguards, which means we save people who aren’t properly grateful and not even slightly respectful,” Erica said.  
“And you’re the one paying us to be here,” Isaac added.  
“I’m actually not paying you, Deaton-”  
Derek pulled on his arm, hurrying him up.  
Stiles, going along with Derek’s pulling, said, "Man, you're all the best to party with. Honestly. You do wonders for my street cred."

Isaac walked in time with Stiles, ready to reach out in case he tripped. “Yeah, but Derek almost went-” Isaac was cut off as Erica elbowed him in the ribs.

"We're not the cops. I don't care about what goes on here; just that you are here, you little shit,” Derek said, his frustration getting the better of him.  
"Is it in your MO to verbally abuse your client?"  
"When they need verbal abuse," Derek replied seriously.  
"Professional." Stiles rubbed his eyes. “But seriously no police. And we have to keep those hospital cars away from here.” Stiles furrowed his brow at his own words.  
“Hospital cars? Ambulances. That’s what I meant.”  
Isaac stared at him, mouth open. “You’re a fucking Martian. I think you need an ambulance.”  
Derek ignored them and continued walking.

There was a flow of people, mostly teenagers, walking back into the house. Boyd and Jackson were doing their best to handle damage control and keep the soaking-wet teenagers on the other side of the house, but some were getting past, going to the side where Stiles was.

They all, Derek included, forgot who Stiles actually was- when you got past the mobster upbringing and the snark- he was a teenager who had just lost his father, after three months of varying degrees of pain: emotional and physical and was now an orphan. And there, covered in injuries- it was easy to see how fragile he actually was, despite how he presented himself. 

And then Derek had to remember who Stiles was when the next series of actions came as a stark reminder.

There was a guy, probably five years older and a foot taller than Stiles, obnoxiously drunk. He threw a full can of soda into the crowd of people shuffling back into the house, which elicited a series of shrieks.

Under the impression Stiles could beat up someone fifty pounds heavier than he was, he turned and shouted, “You better hope nobody’s hurt or I’ll fucking come for you, buddy-”  
Derek just slipped his hand from Stiles’ bicep to around his waist and tightened his hold, hoisting him up. Before the guy could turn and see who was trying to start a fight, Derek made his way with Stiles to the Mercedes.  
Stiles, with one hand completely bound with Derek’s tie and pinned against his chest, was unable to offer any kind of fight against Derek. 

Stiles’ prefrontal cortex wasn’t fully developed, Derek had to remind himself. His decision-making process and assessment of long term consequences wasn’t the same as an adult’s. Derek told himself this, yet the frustration in his chest didn’t dissipate.  
His wolf huffed in amusement. 

 

Derek opened the car door and Stiles fell into the backseat, too uncoordinated and foggy to move his limbs properly. The adrenaline had burned up, leaving him with the shakiness and grogginess and pain and fatigue. And whatever chemicals still in his system from his tryst at the house (or ‘Den’- whatever Deaton had called it).  
By the time Derek was in the driver’s seat, Stiles’ head rested against the window, eyes closed, arm pressed snug against his chest.

Stiles was silent, heartbeat going from fluttery and light to slow and pounding.  
Derek white-knuckled the steering wheel, eyes glancing between Stiles in the rearview and the road.  
“Are you mad?” His words were mumbled, voice half-asleep and eyes still closed.

And Derek just glared at the car in front of him. A lime green Ford Fiesta with a ‘Smile!’ bumper sticker. He was silent for a long minute. “What do you think?”  
Silence, followed by: “Fair enough.” 

It was apparent that Stiles didn’t feel the full weight of his mistake. And why sneaking out was so bad. How, if Derek had been another minute late, Stiles would be dead. Which could be attributed to equal parts groundless teenage courage and alcohol but it but it still pissed Derek off.

The Ford Fiesta cut him off and he watched as the light turned red. He stared at the ‘Smile!’ bumper sticker as it sped away, blank-faced. So frustrated he wasn’t even reacting to it anymore.  
Stiles’ voice was almost squeaky with exhaustion when he said, "Good thinking. With the sprinklers, by the way." His breath was fogging up the glass.  
Derek raised an eyebrow, glancing at him in the rear view. "That wasn't us. It was a fluke."  
“Oh.” Stiles’ eyes were light blue again. Reflecting off the light from passing buildings.

Stiles nodded off in the backseat, bloody tie-wrapped hand cradled to his chest.

 

 

Derek pegged Stiles for a long shower-taker and took the opportunity to take care of business while he was safely out of the way. He barked orders at the betas, threw away Stiles’ bloody clothing, and then barked more orders at the betas. He had Isaac fetch a cold can from the vending machine downstairs, in the absence on an actual ice pack.

“Only rinse it with cold water, not hot. Hold it out of the shower,” Derek had warned, before sending Stiles to shower.  
Stiles had said ‘duh’, even though the hiss of pain under the spray of water Derek heard told him that the advice had fallen on deaf ears.

Derek had Erica wait outside 304 while Stiles was in the shower to get a chance to change out of his own bloodied and ruined suit, the first of many, he knew.  
The seams always tore because his wolf didn’t care much for Tom Ford when it was interfering with his swinging ability. Suits were one of the many down sides to working in private security for the mob; everything had to be formal and uncomfortable and scary and professional. Suits did not take into account claw fighting and movement. 

Derek could feel blood caked under his finger nails. It wasn’t a new feeling, not by far. But just because it was familiar did not mean it was pleasant. He showered and scrubbed at his hands.

Derek saved the phone call to Deaton for last. He called as Stiles’ shower continued, swallowing down that feeling of being a kid about to be scolded by the principal. But Deaton didn’t blame him, the tiredness in his voice telling Derek it’s what he had come to expect.  
“I can handle the first aid.” Deaton was on the main land by now. Far away, at the cemetery.  
There was silence. Contemplative silence, before Deaton said, “Yes. Good. Handle it and I’ll handle him. Tomorrow, when he’s sober.”

While Stiles was in the shower, Derek’s wolf was outside the door. When Derek finished his own shower, it was the same, with the wolf pressed against the closed door of the bathroom. 

Derek waited patiently in Stiles’ room for him to finish. He had already cleaned his hands with disinfectant and prepped the med kit when Stiles emerged from the bathroom, dressed in a t-shirt and soft flannel pants, as well as black ankle socks. Derek was glad Stiles had the sense not to go barefoot in a hotel- no matter how nice it was.  
Stiles’ hair was wet and there was a hunch in his shoulders.

He looked smaller, fragile. With the dried blood gone, Derek could see there was already a dark bruise high up on his cheekbone, a split on his lip, another scratch on his chin and above his brow. Bruising on his neck.  
Stiles fought like someone with a healing factor. Fought like he had nothing to lose.

The lightning, fern-like marks on Stiles’ back were visible, peaking over the collar of his t-shirt. They were almost as dark as the bruising on his pale, thin neck.

Stiles wordlessly sat on the edge of the bed, sidestepping the chair Derek had pulled up from the desk. Derek grabbed the can from where Isaac had put it in the mini fridge and walked to hand it to Stiles.  
"Here, hold this on your face," Derek handed him the cold can.  
"Ugh, Pepsi? You could've at least brought Coke," Stiles said lightly, trying to dispel the tension in the room. He carefully popped the tab, trying not to move his injured hand, taking a drink and ignoring the can’s intended purpose.

Derek had set the kit in the microkitchen and went to pick it up. The one he always had on hand, for dumbass clients who charged into danger, knowing full well they didn’t have supernatural healing.  
Walking back, he commented on the knife and holster he’d found in Stiles’ luggage. “You should always have your knife on you.”  
Not commenting on Derek obviously invading his things, Stiles instead said, “My bad. The one time I leave it.”

Unbelievable.

Derek, kit in hand, sat down in the chair he’d pulled up, across from Stiles. Their knees were inches apart. “That’s all it takes. One time.”

Derek wiped down his hands one more time, throwing the wipes in the waist bin next to his seat. 

He didn’t smell like internal bleeding- that tangy, sweet scent. And Derek couldn’t hear any breaks, though there might’ve been a fracture in Stiles’ cheekbone. Probably not, though.

Clients in the past, ‘tough guys’, would keep quiet about injuries and almost from internal bleeding. Idiots. That was something that Derek was better at than Laura. He’d force medical care on anyone, didn’t matter if they were the head boss and he had to, in some cases, literally drag them to hospital, as they cursed him the entire way. Humans oftentimes were stupid and didn’t know how fragile they actually were. Stiles wasn’t human, but for being so smart, he was stupid.

Derek took pity on Stiles before treating him; the part that was really going to hurt. On the hour car ride from Queens, after the shock had worn off, Stiles had only managed a few tears that he wiped away with his sleeve before grinning and bearing it.  
Maybe it had been a punishment for running off that Derek hadn’t taken his pain away.

“Give me your right hand,” Derek said, holding out his own. The right one wasn’t injured.  
Stiles leaned away warily. “Why?”  
Typical. Nothing could be straight forward. Stiles couldn’t just do what he was asked. “Just give me your hand.”  
And Stiles did, with some hesitation and a look of suspicion.

Black veins wound up Derek’s arm as he held Stiles’ uninjured hand.  
Stiles’ shoulders sagged incrementally with each second of contact. His body became less tense, heart beat slowing.

He smelled less like pain when Derek let go. Something that made his wolf incredibly more at ease. “Better?”  
“I forget that exists. Though it takes skills.” Another deep breath. “Kudos. And thank you.”  
Instead of venturing further into his ‘skills’, Derek said offhandedly, "Your hands are freezing.”

Derek took hold of Stiles’ injured hand and wrist, examining it. He flipped his hand over.  
Stiles’ knuckles were scarred. A pattern Derek recognized. They were faded with age, so white they almost faded into Stiles’ pale skin.  
Without a healing factor, Derek’s would look the same.

He flipped his hand back over. The skin was hot to the touch. But it didn’t smell infected, not yet anyway.

Stiles’ injured left hand was bruising, still just barely bleeding. But the tie had helped. That kind of wound would continue, because the cut was deep enough to bleed but the burn wasn’t severe enough to completely cauterize it. The scorched skin was red and white.

“Thank you, for saving my life and everything,” Stiles said. He sounded sincere. Almost.  
Derek didn’t know how to accept the thanks, it was his job after all. He deflected with: “If you listen to what I say, I wouldn’t have to ‘save your life’ in the first place.”  
After a pause, Stiles almost laughed to himself. “It's stupid.”  
“What's stupid? What you did or why you did it?”  
“Both?” He looked at his hand in Derek’s. “’I didn't think this far ahead’ is my life motto.”

He let go of Stiles’ hand. His facial injuries wouldn’t need butterfly strips. It was his hand that was the main problem. Game plan. 

Stiles set the can down on the nightstand and experimentally flexed the fingers that were burned the most severely. Stopping when, surprise surprise, it starting hurting again. Doses of pain leeching could only do so much.  
Derek took a moment to stop sorting through the kit, to put his hand on Stiles’ left forearm and took his pain again. “Stop doing that before you make the bleeding worse.”

The wolf curled up at the end of Stiles’ bed as Derek began treating his wounds.

Derek pulled out the disinfectant from the kit, took Stiles’ hand again, and began applying it. Luckily, Stiles couldn’t feel the sting of it. But that didn’t stop him from squirming.

“Stop fidgeting.”  
“I’m not fidgeting.” Stiles’ fingers continued wiggling.  
“You want me to get Deaton over here? He’s more qualified and he’d be more thorough-”  
“-No, no. I’m good.”  
That’s what I thought.

Stiles’ heartbeat elevated. “You told Deaton, right? You still have my phone so I haven’t checked if he’s called or anything.” Stiles patted his pockets absently. “Going to need that back, by the way.”  
“After,” Derek said unhelpfully. “And yes, I told your guardian what happened.” He was putting Neosporin on cotton pads. Only looking up at Stiles slightly with a raised eyebrow.  
Stiles swallowed hard and nodded. “Of course.”  
“You’ll need to talk to him.”  
Stiles sighed. “Don’t worry. I’m sure Deaton has a thorough lecture picked out for me.”  
“Deaton’s on the mainland right now.” Derek didn’t explain further. Both of them knew why and there was no point voicing the words.

As Derek applied the gauze strips to each finger, he said, “She could’ve taken off your hand.” Internally, he was worried. But Stiles didn’t need to know that. “It must’ve been the sheer force of your stupidity that kept her from severing your hand.”  
“You mean my genius?” But even Stiles lacked that teenage, fake-confidence that he normally exuded. ‘I love myself but at the same time I am the worst and I hate myself/ I want to live, but dying isn’t too bad either’.  
Derek taped off the gauze as Stiles continued watching him. “How’re your ribs?”  
“They were hurting. But I don’t think they’re broken or anything.”  
Stiles was right. Bruised, maybe. But he’d recover.

Derek ran through his mental checklist. The possible concussion. He pulled a mini-flashlight from the kit. “Stare forward. Follow the light.”  
Stiles tried to push the light away. “I didn’t hit my head, though.”  
“Stare forward, Stiles,” Derek repeated pointedly. His eyes were grey, pupils blown wide. But he blinked away from the light as his pupils retracted, so there wasn’t brain damage.  
“I promise I’m not concussed.”  
“You’re right. Your problems run much deeper than that.” He put the light back in the kit. “It’s probably a mixture of the alcohol and inherent stupidity that made me think you might’ve had a concussion.”  
‘Wow’ Stiles mouthed.

Derek gently touched his fingertips to Stiles’ neck, moving his head side to side.  
Stiles was looking up as Derek moved his head. “What are you doing?” His skin vibrated under Derek’s touch with the words.  
“Shh. Listening for fractures.”  
“Huh,” was all he said. It must have sounded weird to a nonwolf.

It sounded OK. Which was surprising, considering how easy tracheas broke.  
But there was still pain coming from somewhere.  
“How’s your back?” Derek asked.  
Stiles blushed. “Hurts.” 

Derek reached a hand behind Stiles and put his hand on the nape of Stiles’ neck on top of his shirt, then without warning, put his hand to Stiles’ bare skin. Stiles flinched.

Derek lifted his hand and went under the hem of his shirt, petting his palm from the bottom of Stiles’ spine, to the top. Derek was listening to Stiles’ heartbeat and for any grating sounds of fracture, giving him something else to focus on than the soft feeling of skin and Stiles’ teenage hormones. 

Stiles’ awkward discomfort had Derek pleasantly content. Stiles stared forward at something across the room, face inches from Derek’s chest, trying in vain to keep his heartrate under control.

Derek didn’t feel any discrepancies in the skin over Stiles’ spine, just the knobby bone there, beneath the surface. Except the feeling of what Derek was just going to refer to as Stiles’ Lichtenburg figure. There was a story there. For another time, maybe.

Derek removed his hand and pulled away. “You already have a bruise forming but nothing is fractured or out of place. You’re probably already feeling that.”  
“Saw that. And can feel that.”

 

Stiles was so different than the sheriff’s kid he’d met on that cosmically cursed night ten years ago. His eyes weren’t as shining; didn’t have that child-like wonder. Life had a way of killing that.  
He still had that smile and cute face. But he’d changed. Grown up and developed a shell. Jaded. More sadness and world-weariness. But then again, he’d been a kid with two parents and his world hadn’t shattered yet. Derek’s world had ended in a night. The old Stiles’ world had ended in a period of ten years.

 

Stiles picked up the can from the nightstand with his other hand, then took a drink. Staring at Derek. “I know you,” he said.  
Derek raised an eyebrow, avoiding the implication of Stiles remembering him from Beacon Hills completely. “You do. I’m your bodyguard. Did you actually hit your head?”

He set the can back down on the nightstand. “No, I mean, I know you. I couldn’t figure it out but I knew your eyebrows from somewhere. I hadn’t connected the Hale fire between you and the crying kid at the police station.” Stiles looked him up and down, like he was seeing him in a different light. “You've definitely grown into your eyebrows.”

Derek’s heart skipped a beat. Just to be difficult and because Stiles did the same thing to him, he responded with, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
“Liar! You remember me.” Stiles flailed. “You were sitting on a bench alone, covered in ash. And I saw you from my dad’s office and I felt bad. So I gave you a sucker and sat beside you.”  
Derek gave Stiles a look. “Some memory you have there.”  
“I was six and it definitely happened. I do remember I got you to stop crying. At least for a little while.”  
Derek refused to look at him, instead focusing on the bandages on Stiles’ wrist, that he was still considering calling Deaton up for- even if he’d told Stiles he wouldn’t, to get a second opinion on the need of a hospital or not. “You were rambling about some flowers. And I couldn’t believe my family had just died, and this little kid comes along, gives me a sucker, and then proceeds to tell me about flowers and then draw me a tree.”  
Stiles watched Derek. “Did you keep it?”  
“No, I lost it after a couple of weeks.” He'd left it in his pants pocket and it'd taken a trip through the washer and dryer. What Derek didn’t say was how he’d mourned the loss of that picture alongside the loss of his family.  
“Rude. I poured my heart and soul into that drawing.”  
"It looked like a squiggly piece of purple broccoli," Derek said.  
"I couldn't find the green crayon, asshole."  
As long as the burns were disinfected and taken care of, he wouldn’t need serious medical attention, was Derek’s final thought on the matter.

Stiles picked up the can again with his right hand and took a drink. Then: “Dude, you clearly remembered me. Why didn’t you say anything?”  
Derek honestly didn’t have a good enough reason. ‘I want to bury my past from Beacon Hills, telling you would dig that up’. ‘You didn’t remember me so I didn’t see the point.’ But everything just sounded like a tired excuse. So Derek answered him with a brusque shrug.  
“You’re so noncommittal.”

Stiles reminded him of Laura.  
His heart ached.

He turned away from Stiles, under the guise of organizing the med kit.

“So that’s why you wouldn’t tell me where you’re from? When we were playing the question game? Petty.”  
Derek didn’t answer his question. Instead, he said, “I couldn’t help but notice that you didn't make the pack play the question game.”  
With unbridled honesty, Stiles said, “They’re nicer to me than you are.”  
He squeezed a little too hard on Stiles’ knee. “Uh huh.”  
Stiles winced and jerked back. “Ow! Asshole.” He glared at Derek but didn’t attempt retaliation. “And besides, we’re not playing the question game right now.”  
“Oh, yeah? What is this, then?”  
Stiles shrugged. “You telling me a story? About yourself? There’s so much I want to know. Because dude, this is fated. The cards were telling me that our pasts were more intertwined than I thought.”  
Wait until Stiles found out Deaton was the old Hale pack’s emissary.

Derek didn’t comment. “I’m starting on your face now.”

He touched the skin of Stiles’ cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, just barely gliding the tip of his finger over his cheek, then his jaw.  
Nothing broken, then. 

 

Derek, because the it nagged at his sense of superiority, asked, “How did you not know? That I am alpha?”  
Stiles opened an eye. “Don’t know if you noticed this or not but Deaton is very select in what he tells people, even me. And I haven’t exactly been keeping up with the gossip recently.”

 

If what Deaton said was true and John had been in the habit of following the orphans in Hale Security, then that meant at the four month mark in Mexico, when the story leaked about the Laura and the mission, that meant it was one month into John’s coma. There was no way for John to have known or relayed it to Stiles. So John, not that it mattered, did not know about her death or Derek’s new alpha status, because at that point in time, the Hales’ struggle was not public. So it made sense that Stiles had no idea that Derek was the alpha. Or was the random kid he met all those years ago. Or was the Hale his dad mentioned sometimes. 

 

Stiles watched Derek’s hands as he dabbed more disinfectant onto cotton pads. “And no offense but you don’t seem…” He paused, considerate. “Never mind.”  
“What? Say it.”  
Stiles shrugged and made the motion for locking his lips and throwing away the key.  
“You’re a child.” Derek dabbed at Stiles’ cut lip with the cotton pad, at the cut on his chin and eyebrow. Stiles winced. “Who did you think was the alpha?”  
Stiles waited for Derek to finish to say, “Well, the way Deaton was talking made it sound like Peter was, and that he was just leaving you in charge while he’s in Japan.”  
Derek held back a grimace. He didn’t think he was a good alpha, but he couldn’t even imagine Peter as one.  
A nightmare, that’s what’d it be.

“Since you’re allowed to ask questions, then how come you didn’t mention anything about Beacon Hills? Or meeting my dad?”  
"I didn't know your dad was the kingpin here. It didn't connect because I remembered him being kind. And for the last couple of days I've been trying to figure out how the kind sheriff became a mobster. But it sounds like even though he changed professions, he didn't change his actions that much."  
Stiles cracked open an eye and looked to his bandaged hand. "My mom was killed after you'd already left Beacon Hills. And that kind of opened his eyes, I guess. To the inequality. I never thought of him as a crime boss though, just that he was my dad."  
Made sense.

Derek had a special salve, his mother’s own recipe, that could progress the healing of small bruises. He had Stiles keep his eyes closed as he applied it to his cheek. The bruises on his neck and back would have to heal naturally.

To partially answer Stiles’ question from earlier, Derek said, “None of us wanted to think about Beacon Hills.”  
Stiles took a moment before shaking his head slightly. “Wait wait wait, so you’re from Beacon Hills. AND the pack too?” Another beat. “And no one said anything?  
Derek chose to not comment.  
“You told them not to, didn’t you?” He stared hard at Derek. “Wowww. Man, you should’ve told me. I vaguely remember eavesdropping on my dad yeas ago about him needing a job done. Papers forged in bulk. It was weird.”  
Derek might as well clear up the miscommunication now. “Deaton told me that John had been following the progression of Laura and I in our careers. And helped get the betas their papers. But after seeing you, it was clear you didn’t know who I was.”  
“Well, of course I knew of you. The pack of wolves that have been werewolf muscle for hire for centuries, who only take mundane clients.” He opened his eyes as Derek finished rubbing the salve. “But ‘Hale’ isn’t the most unique name in the world and you know how many names my father mentioned?”  
So he chalked it up to a mistaken case of vague last names that led to the misunderstanding. But that didn’t account for the further miscommunication.

Almost reading his mind, Stiles said, “Maybe it’s not only us that is contributing to the misunderstandings- but the people around us.”  
Derek gave him a look.  
“OK- it’s like, 50% us. Half and half.”  
“60/40. You didn’t put it together that I was the alpha so you can’t judge me about not putting it together about John and Deaton and all of these connections to Beacon Hills and our families sooner, either.”  
“I had like, a day. You had years.” He was still staring at Derek. “Hey, so can you go full wolf?”  
After a pause: “Yes. But I’m not going to, if that’s what you’re going to ask next.”

The shift was more intense when he went full wolf. The first time he’d done it in Mexico, the pack couldn’t find him for days. He’d been lost in the wilds. 

“Why don’t you fully shift more?”  
“It’s hard to operate a gun with paws.” What he didn’t say was how his wolf instinct was so strong in that form it’d be hard to actually focus on protecting someone.  
“I always wondered about that. A pack of wolves using guns?”  
“It’s a brave new world. We evolved.”

 

Derek didn’t want to talk. But Stiles’ openness changed that.

 

Stiles moved to sit crisscross on the bed. "Tell me a story."  
“Why would I do that?”  
“Because I like listening to your voice."  
Derek was sure the tips of his ears were pink but Stiles wasn’t looking at him to point it out.  
Stiles rolled onto his stomach. "Plus, isn't it in your 'job description' to do what I say?"  
"No. It's to do what you need."  
"I need a distraction.” A pause. “Or I might want to leave again."  
He’d been threatened on just about every contract he’d taken. Stiles was going to have to try harder.  
But Derek didn’t say it aloud, because Stiles would take it as a challenge. 

“Tell me about the Hales.”  
“It’s all public record. One internet search away.”  
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but I don’t want to have to go read some sensationalized crime-tabloid when you’re right here. And I know it’s not all public. You wolves aren’t like that. Your privacy, on the stuff that really matters, is important.” He gestured with his right hand. “Just think of how impossible this is. A random, chance encounter at a police station thousands of miles away. In a small town we’re both from, your pack is from. And now here we are. Vastly different circumstances but together.”  
“It must be fate,” Derek said in monotone.  
Stiles, ignoring the mocking tone, said, “You have to admit; this is pretty amazing. So maybe just talk to me? Because our lives have overlapped again. And it’s pointless to be prickly with me considering we’re a day into your six month contract.”

Derek was silent, staring at him. Then, “You don’t think I have it in me to be prickly for six months? I’ve been doing it my whole life; why stop now?”  
Stiles broke into a smile, beaming despite his injuries. “See? You do have a sense of humor?”  
“Who’s joking? I’m being completely serious.”

With Stiles, it was like he'd taken sodium amytal. He wanted to talk. Tell the truth. He wanted to open up with someone, the way he's been able to open up that woman. His wolf, in all its enigma and whimsy, wanted it too. Its incessant need to growl and maim was pumped with a truth serum; giving it an sense of shelter and comfort. 

Stiles seemed to think for a second before making up his mind. "Why is there some kind of tension between you and your pack?"  
Denial. Denial was his best friend. "What tension?"  
"I'm not a complete brick wall. Does it have to do with you being the alpha?"  
Derek was itching to get up and shake Stiles into telling him how he knew. No- he didn't want to. The wolf inside did. "What do you mean?"  
Stiles shrugged, moving onto the next thing. “I don’t remember a lot from Beacon Hills, especially all the cases my father took home. But I know some stuff about you. And your family. But it’s from the perspective of a child because dad clammed up about all sheriff stuff when we moved to New York.”

Derek shifted in his seat. Something about Stiles made him want to talk. He'd said more to Stiles in the last day than he'd said to any one person in the last year, even the pack. They were used to his silence, which wasn’t fair to them and he knew that. He’d lost his sister, but they’d lost their alpha. And were given another one that wasn’t worthy of the position.  
It was usually monosyllabic replies, or nonverbal hints but with Stiles, he wanted to talk.  
It was unnerving. 

And if it could get Stiles to talk to him in turn, then why not?

"When I was fifteen, I met an older woman. She was human, but I didn't care. She told me she loved me, I believed her. And four months later, with some information I'd given her, she was able to burn my house down and kill my family. The only to survive were me, Laura, and Peter. Come to find out, she was the last of a family of exhunters. The ones who illegally carried on hunting, even after the wars were over.”  
Killing her had been a righteous kind of vengeance.

"Shit- I didn't know.” Stiles looked away. “I'm sorry. Even though I know that doesn’t make it feel better."  
It didn’t. But Stiles acknowledging that helped.

It was about finding common ground, even if the footing was their depressing pasts.

"From what I remember, which may be completely wrong, you were one of the youngest Hales. So you shouldn't be alpha..."

Derek began packing up the kit, pitching the packages into the trashcan. "I became alpha less than a year ago. There were a family of ex-hunters in Mexico. We got a client from a drug lord there, his wolf son had been taken. It was an extraction mission. Solo, in and out without being seen. I should've been the one to go, but she said I was too inexperienced and I couldn't just claw my way in."  
"Sounds like she was just trying to protect her little brother."  
"She was. She was a sentimental mess, even though she'd never admit it. Laura went alone and something went wrong because we didn't hear from her, or the client, or the asset she was sent to retrieve. It happened in the night. I felt this pain in my chest and then my eyes were red." They’d heard word that the asset had made it out alive. And the father and son went into hiding. In exchange for Laura’s life, Hale Security’s spotless reputation prevailed.  
"That's why you were in Mexico for so long? You were trying to find her."  
"Trying to find her body.” Fighting back the defeat in his voice, he said, “And I couldn't. The Calaveras were good. The trail went cold after a couple months. And I wasn't supposed to be alpha. Peter was her second. He was the next beta."  
"But the power went to you when she died."  
Derek nodded. "Which means she saw me as her second, not Peter."  
"And you being alpha doesn't cause any friction?"  
"I didn't say that."  
Stiles nodded. "He's bitter."  
"You could say that," Derek said, something humorless in his voice.  
He yawned. "Man, your uncle sounds like a dick."  
"You have no idea." He stood up. His throat was scratchy and he'd shared more than he'd intended. His wolf was edging him on; keep talking. This boy gets it. He's the same.  
He told it to be quiet. 

Derek felt off kilter, under Stiles’ stare, his intense grey eyes. Stiles looked at him like an impossible math equation, but one he was determined to solve it anyway.  
Derek was content to remain unsolved, especially if Stiles was trying to be the one to solve him.

“I thought it would be OK- just this one time,” Stiles started to explain in a quiet voice.  
“You never hear the bullet that gets you. You can’t predict these kinds of things. You should always believe that no matter when or where, someone is trying to kill you.”  
“Seems you have paranoia in spades.”  
“It’s kept me, and all of my clients, alive so far.”  
“I tried to warn you- I have experience escaping.”  
He really had. And Derek should have listened. Look at me, messing up like this is my first contract. I’ve gotten sloppy since Mexico.

“We need to trust each other. I’m the one keeping you alive. I already have to deal with others trying to kill you so if you could try not to self-sabotage, it’d make my job easier.” Stiles didn’t say anything. “I’m good at what I do, Stiles, do you trust me on that?”  
Stiles nodded.

Stiles was more open than he’d been all day. Comfortable, even. Acclimated to the idea of sharing. Hopefully, he’d be honest as Derek continued his emotional assessment.

“How are you doing?” Derek asked, too casually.  
“Oh my- are you trying to assess my mental state right now?” Stiles almost laughed. “Those two weren’t the first to try and kill me and they won’t be the last. And I’ve been hurt worse.”

 

He was going to be handling Stiles like a live grenade, to be held carefully until Derek knew what exactly would set him off. The past, in his experience, was a pretty good trigger of bombs.

 

“You wanted to know why I did it? Snuck out to see my friends?” Stiles drew his knees up carefully to his chest. “I know I’m not going to really see them, not like I used to. Because once I start having all of the responsibilities as the head, I’ll have other things to worry about. And it would be safer anyway. For all of them.”  
And Derek didn’t agree or disagree because he knew Stiles was right. Your loved ones also became targets. Which Stiles had already experienced firsthand. 

 

“You were right, earlier. About how my failure means your death. And that almost happened tonight.”  
“It would’ve been my fault. Not yours,” Stiles said quietly.  
“Dead is dead, Stiles.” Derek moved the chair back to the desk. 

Stiles was silent as Derek placed the trashcan in between the bed and the nightstand. He moved to lie down, mindful of his aches and pains.

Derek checked the room one last time before heading for the door. “Oh, and Stiles?”  
“What?”  
“You pull something like this again, there will be major consequences.”  
Stiles squinted at him. “Define ‘this’?”  
“Anything that puts your wellbeing at risk.”  
He scoffed. “Seriously? That’s like, almost everything I do.”  
“Not my problem.”  
Stiles paused before asking, “What consequences are we talking here?”  
“Go to sleep."  
"No," Stiles said. Because why wouldn’t he make things difficult?  
“It’s sound advice. Because you have a 10:30 wake up time. Hangover or not." Mixing drugs and alcohol was always a cocktail for pain, no matter how young you were.  
Stiles groaned, throwing a pillow over his face. His voice was muffled as he said: "You're such an asshole."  
Derek walked to the door. "An asshole that's going to wake you up in six hours."  
He couldn't help but smirk at the 'fuck you' thrown at him as he made his exit.

 

Derek felt like he’d just been in an interrogation room. He’d revealed more than he’d intended. And he was still trying to figure out why.

Boyd and Jackson had returned from the Den. He called everyone into room 303 for their post-security disaster recap meeting. To discuss what had happened and how to prevent it from happening again.

Derek caught everyone up to speed. How Stiles was doing injury-wise, how to proceed. What they could’ve done differently. Told them the supplies to replace in the kit and instructions to Jackson for replacement garments because there was no salvaging their clothing.  
Standard operating procedure.  
But for some things, their protocol was muddled and unclear.

“And Stiles? What about his mental assessment? What did you find out?”  
Derek fought a sigh. “Inconclusive.”

 

Derek didn’t feel like the alpha fit him. It was like putting your hand in gloves and two of your fingers go in the same hole, only it takes you a moment to realize because of how uncomfortable it is to have those two things shoved in the same place, where one does not belong.

 

It was two in the afternoon when Derek got the call.

Stiles was still sleeping, because the 10:30am wakeup call had mostly been just to piss the him off. Even Derek had no desire to poke at him. Erica and Isaac had been slipping him water and pain killers and snacks but that was it. Thankfully, he remained complacent and asleep.  
Derek brought a chair to sit in outside of Stiles' door. He was reading an article about drug abuse and the death of a parent correlating in teenagers when his phone rang. It was Peter. 

He stood and walked to 305, thinking that even in his condition, Stiles couldn't get into any trouble within the span of a phone call.

"What?" Derek asked in monotone. 

He knew what the call was about. He'd texted him that morning about Stiles sneaking out. Peter, after all, was technically his boss. The owner and highest position at Hale Security. He was running the show, even from Japan. Besides, if he would've found out later on from Deaton or one of his team...that was a shit storm he wanted to avoid. Peter's bitching was almost unbearable. And the betas weren't equipped mentally to deal with a total berating from him.

"Dear nephew, what the fuck are you there for?"  
Deep breath in. Steady breath out. "You've never met him. I didn't think he could-"  
"You underestimated him. That's what you're telling me. You underestimated a newly orphaned teenager who's been raised in a crime syndicate. Is this really the behavior of an alpha? This shit show wouldn't have happened if maybe you'd look over your pack- because whether or not you and that wolf like it, Stiles is pack for the next six months. God- this is a fucking nightmare. I was right about you not being right for this, if Laura was here-”  
“But she’s not, Peter. She’s not here. I am,” Derek snapped.  
“How many mundies have you watched over? And how many of those were as high profile as Stiles is?" Peter asked, razors in his voice.

Derek grit his teeth. To be berated like this-

"I'm taking your silence as an answer. You've watched countless high profile humans. Humans, Derek. Stiles is not a human. And even then, you’ve never watched someone this high on the underworld totem pole- any totem pole," he said in a condescending way, like one would a child failing to grasp a simple concept. "And he's not an idiot, though I've heard rumors of his...personality attributes. An idiot could not be the head of this syndicate. That's your fault for assuming otherwise.

There was growling coming from somewhere. It was loud and made it hard to focus on anything besides his growing frustration. "I'm aware."

"Are you? You almost got the asset killed in less than 24 hours. Must be a new record."  
"I was there in time-"  
"But what if you hadn't been? What if next time, note how I'm saying 'if' and not 'when'- because I still, for some reason, still have a modicum of trust in you- you're not there? This was close. Too close."  
Deep breath in. Steady breath out. Deep breath in- "I'm going. I have a security team to organize. Pack to lead."  
"If this happens again, I'll be forced to take action."

Derek clenched his fist, swallowing the growl coming from deep within his chest. "And do what?"  
"Whatever it takes to get Stiles to his birthday," and then he hung up, because Peter was a child who had to have the last word.

Derek stared at his phone. The urge to smash it was prevalent. But even he had enough control to know that that was a Bad idea.  
He inhaled through his nose. Peter had the fucking audacity-

 

He was the alpha. Not Peter.  
His wolf was scratching to get out. Growling.  
How dare the beta question the alpha?

It wasn’t the wolf growling; it was coming from Derek’s own mouth.

There was a noise in his ears like the ringing deafness after a gunshot. His breathing came out rough; it felt hard and choked.  
Derek fisted a hand in his hair. The pull did nothing to soothe the unbearable itch for movement. For destruction. 

Anger is useful. It’s a spark. An anchor. But rage is a wildfire that will burn out of your control, Laura used to say.

He caught his own eyes in the mirror to his left.  
They were glowing red.

Then let it burn.

It took one punch for his face to be reflected in hundreds of spider-webbed glass.  
The scratching to get out and tear apart was clawing. Digging. The sound of his heart beating in his own ears was in tandem with the high pitched ringing.  
Every heartbeat like a chant, telling him to lose it.

Before Laura, Derek felt like he was pretty much a functioning person with baggage like everyone else. And OK, maybe it was a bit worse than some people’s, but he felt somewhat stable.

He flipped the table next to him. Glass shattered on the floor. Papers spread.  
He balled his fists at his sides. Claws dug into the soft flesh of his palm. Blood spilling at the same rate the crescent-shaped cuts healed. 

He kicked a chair into the wall. Wood splinters flew. 

Canines elongated and bit into his lip.  
The vase on the posh fireplace's mantle joined the pile of wood. 

There was growling. Whether it was coming from the wolf or his own mouth, at that point, he wasn't sure.

 

 

Erica pressed her ear to the wall of 303. If she focused, she could hear what was happening in 305, even with Stiles' room separating them. It had gone semi quiet, except for the high pitched growls that made her want to curl her metaphorical tail and hide. It was the demanding pitch of her alpha.  
"How much longer do you think he'll go?" Isaac asked, looking out at the sky. It was overcast but hadn't started raining yet.

She backed up from the wall. "I don't know. At least he stopped smashing things."

Door opening, door closing, footsteps, knocking, door opening, and door closing.

"For now," Jackson said over the comms Boyd had set up. No one liked wearing the ear wig for too long. It messed with the whole werewolf hearing thing. He was stalking around the parking lot.

Erica nodded, moving to talk directly into the mic. "Boyd, you still have the copy of that apology letter and compensation bill, right? The one rubber-stamped for hotels?"  
Boyd was in the security van, checking footage. Or playing solitaire, like the liar he was. "Yeah. Saved in my computer."  
"Good. We'll be needing it."

After a minute, Boyd asked, "By the way, who's watching Stiles as Derek alpha-rages?"

Isaac and Erica looked at each other. It was Erica who said, "We shouldn't have to worry about him. He's got a killer hangover. And you're watching the camera at his door."  
"And Jackson's covering the exits," Isaac added.

"Well, the security feed is still having interference. Fading in and out."

There was silence. Erica and Isaac looked at each other, silently deciding who should be the one to go camp by Stiles' door. It was Derek's post but he was preoccupied at the moment-

Another minute. Then Boyd was back over the comms. "I'm looking through the feed that got cut off a little while ago... Stiles left his room already." 

They looked at each other. Those sounds earlier- 304 opening, then the knock on what had presumably been 305, then the opening of 305- 

Surely, Derek wouldn't hurt Stiles...?

They almost tripped over each other's feet in their rush for the door.

 

 

　  
The door shut behind Stiles.  
"Yo, Derek, buddy, you have my phone in your pocket-" he took in the state of the room. The state of Derek. "Oh. Fuck.”

Derek was half knelt over, hands squeezing his thighs, little trickles of blood running down his dark trousers. His breathing was slurred around the receding canines in his mouth.

"Growing bag lady nails. Cool trick.” Stiles nudged at the remnants of a lamp with his shoe, eyes taking the full picture of Derek in. 

Stiles was observing him with that piercing gaze. They were pale blue like a clear winter sky.  
He was making no moves to back out of the room.  
And Derek wasn’t about to yell. Not yet. If he did-  
Consequences.  
Never let your emotions cloud your judgement. 

"You know, I thought it was strange how long it took you to calm down after shifting at the Den,” Stiles said, watching him.

Derek rolled his shoulders with the partial shift, his bones grinded with the change. He said nothing, just focused on his own breathing. 

"This is what everyone's been dancing around, huh? I asked you point blank about the tension between your pack… And why Peter is so against you protecting me-”  
"Not now," Derek growled, breathing heavily. He was only halfway looking at Stiles. Trying to control the shift. Squeeze his eyes shut and make the stinging red go away. 

Stiles had a million reasons to be a bitch but the reasons for his current bitchiness were pretty fucking petty in comparison. He was pissed that he was attacked in his favorite hangout and his head fucking pounded and he had to be babysat by another fucking security team and his dad was dead-  
And the kid’s dad was dead.

Stiles stepped over shards of wood and glass and metal. He cocked his head to look at pieces of a furniture puzzle that could never be put back together. He took another step closer to Derek. "Must be a big security risk, having an alpha who has psychotic outbursts." 

His anger coiled hot in his chest. It used to be a comfort, an anchor for his wolf, but it just hurt now. Just made his fangs nick his tongue and his claws tear open his own palms.

"Stiles," Derek said through his teeth. Human shaped again, for now.  
“Listen, I get the control issues.” Stiles shrugged. “Happens to the best of us.”

Alcohol and crankiness meant Stiles wasn't backing down. His eyes were like ice. His words cold, matching in intensity to his irises.  
His anger matched Derek’s own.

"You're unstable. You lack control. It stems from your guilt. Guilt from your family's death and Laura's. Both of the alphas before you died as a result of your negligence, or so you've convinced yourself.”

There it was again; that perceptiveness, keen sense of knowing, that scared the fuck out of Derek.  
If he was a stronger man, he would’ve just told Stiles to shut up and left the room.  
But Derek wasn’t strong.  
He was fuming.

And that was the crux of it. Anchor. His anchor wasn’t working anymore. 

Maybe because the power had been Laura’s and her anchor wasn’t anger. It had been the opposite. It was love and family and pack bonds. Or maybe Stiles was right. Maybe it was guilt that made anger a sort of poison to him now.  
As a beta, he’d had control.  
As an alpha, the same anger that once served as something to pull him back from the wolf, was making it worse-  
the wolf was in control.

A growl started low in Derek’s throat as his hand tore through drywall. He ripped it out and hurled a piece at Stiles to get him to stop fucking talking.

But Stiles just ducked and kept going. He wasn’t back down. “You're subconsciously rejecting the alpha wolf that has been passed down to you. You feel like you don't deserve it. So it becomes restless.”

Are you truly strong enough to use its power? His words taunted.

Derek was in front of him, looming muscle, teeth gnashing.

Stiles stared into his face, afraid but still talking. "The line is blurred between who's in control; is it a part of you or are you a part of it? The king is thrown from his horse. Beast becomes master."  
A pause. Just Derek’s breathing. Then, “You’re not free. You need peace. You need to accept what happened.”

Everybody’s lost somebody. So just because you’re struggling to accept what happened to your sister, some of us are forced to accept it.

Derek grabbed the front of Stiles’ shirt. The alpha was howling to rip him apart, destroy everything. Derek was powerless to do anything but what it said.

Stiles put his hand over Derek's, the hand that was twisted up in his shirt front, ready to throw him across the room.

He distantly registered glass cracking underfoot. Of wind beating against the windows. Shuttering sounds from the force.

Stiles’ touch was warm. Calming. His eyes were huge, staring with a determined kind of stupid courage. They faded to a slate grey. The smell of his fear was palpable, the sound of his racing heart-  
But still, there he was. Touching Derek's hand, claws peaking from his fingertips.  
“You’re not here to kill me, you’re here to protect me,” Stiles said slowly.  
A reminder.

He watched Stiles’ bruised face. No pity in his expression. Just acceptance.

The air that had been previously sucked out of the room was back.  
And with it, Derek could breathe again. 

He could hear clearer. His mind was clearer.

Derek relaxed his fingers, and one by one let go of Stiles.

The wolf was calm. Slinking back to a corner somewhere to sleep, eyes drooping with peaceful contentedness. The restless energy was gone, for now.

 

Derek caught his breath. His mouth couldn't form the words.

Even when there wasn’t trust, there was faith. At least in Derek’s experience. 

Stiles patted his shoulder. "I accept your apology."  
He tried to put on an affronted face. He'd shown weakness. "I wasn't going to apologize."

Stiles put a hand to his heart. "Dude, you almost ripped my throat out. With your teeth."  
Derek turned from him, to assess the damage to the room. "No, I didn't. The situation was under control."  
From behind him, Stiles said, "My ass it was. You went all rogue alpha. Kinda scary." There was a pause, and then quietly he finished with, “Also kinda hot."  
Derek spun around to- he didn't know. His flirting made Derek feel off kilter.

 

There was a harsh banging on the door, followed by the betas yelling Stiles' name. The sound of the plastic card sliding into the lock registered before the door opened.

Isaac and Erica stood there, looking panicked.

"Derek- Stiles- are you OK?" Erica asked.  
Stiles turned to them. "You're like, the worst security team ever. How have you guys made it this far?”  
Derek stepped past Stiles. "He shouldn't have even gotten a foot out of his door. It's been over two minutes."

Stiles made eyes at them over Derek's shoulder. 

They parted as Derek walked through them, followed by Stiles who was still making a 'you're in troubleeee- look what you did'’ face. 

Derek heard Isaac's whispered, "We should have just let him eat you."　  
"I honestly wouldn't have even been mad. The irony of that death would've been so worth it.” To Derek, Stiles said, “But you should seriously find a hobby. Like knitting. Something to lower that testosterone. What about yoga? Or breathing exercises? Something low stress.”  
Derek ignored him.

They stepped over glass and wood as they left the room.

Pick it up. Pick it all up and start again.

 

Stiles abruptly turned. "My personal cell phone. You have it." He was holding out his hand expectantly.  
Derek pulled it from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He held it just above Stiles' palm. "Maybe I should confiscate it."  
Stiles glared, trying to snatch it with his uninjured hand. Derek pulled it back.  
"For the record, if I hadn't had my cell phone, I couldn't have called Scott. Who couldn't have called Deaton, who alerted you as to where I was. Which means I would be dead."  
Derek said nothing, conceding that he did have a point. He handed the cellphone back to Stiles, who then put the card in his door, already dialing a number with his other hand.

Stiles stepped back into his room. Derek caught the tail end of his opening conversation.  
"Dude, did you seriously snitch on me?"  
"Stiles- you could've died."  
"Still. It's the principal. Bros don’t snitch on bros.”  
“Bros don’t let bros get murdered.”

 

The boy was not a wolf, but he bit like one. Deaton had tried to warn him. He has teeth, Derek. But he’d just looked at Stiles, who only smiled, and assumed he didn’t. That smile had no teeth.  
But Stiles did. They’d just been hidden.

 

 

 

To: Deaton (secured_account)  
Subject: Report #1  
\-----------------------------------------  
[End of Day 1]

Hungover + Cranky. He's back in bed, with minimal injuries.

Current Status and observations:  
-Terrible with following orders  
-Constant back talk  
-No sense of self preservation  
-A disturbing sense of omnipotence or ESP or observational skills that's making everything even more difficult  
-Can't shut up/ No filter  
-Too smart for his own good  
-One of the most difficult clients my team and I have ever dealt with

You didn't warn me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want everyone to know that I've been writing this fic for two years now. Buckle up, it's 700k words long.  
> I'll talk to you more later, as the story develops.
> 
> And comments help feed my family, so please leave feedback. They're starving.


	3. The Funeral

Two days later had them in another hotel on the mainland.   
It was within an hour of the cemetery. 

Derek shrugged on his shoulder holster and checked his gun.

Deaton had chewed Stiles a new one when they met him the night before. Spilling his frustration and worry about what had happened with Violet and Garrett.

Stiles' face had mostly healed from the attack. There was a blue bruise on one prominent cheek bone and his bottom lip was still cut but no longer swollen. His fingers and wrist still required bandages but they were healing. His neck retained just the slightest bit of purple, mostly hidden by his collar. He had other bruises, on his knees and back, that still stung with movement.  
Derek figured he probably wouldn't look any different from most of the people attending the funeral.

Deaton thought Stiles’ healing was due to the attentive nature of Derek’s continual first aid. And he was inclined to agree. Amazing how fast the body healed when you actually took care of it. 

From their intel, Deaton was able to track down the contract Violet and Garrett had gone after and ‘deal with it’, as he’d said.

 

It was six in the morning.

Stiles smelled like amphetamine. His heart beat unsteadily. He appeared mostly all right. But his shower that morning hadn’t been able to completely muffle the sounds of his tears.

Stiles' eyes were tired. He’d been silent since Derek had knocked on his door as a wake up call.   
Unsurprisingly, he'd already been awake. He bought an energy drink from a vending machine in the lobby. It was an off brand blue something that smelled like sugary acid and artificial orange.

Deaton was talking to Stiles. He’d stopped by before heading out to the cemetery, to lecture Stiles further and give his final words to Derek. Derek and the team were letting them go through it, until it was their turn to be addressed.

 

"Huh. It stopped." Jackson tapped on the glass face of his watch. "That's weird because I just changed the battery."  
“Change them again,” was all Derek said.

Boyd, between tech checks, was packing up the chest. He pocketed a vial of mountain ash.  
Mountain ash circles hadn’t been a problem since the early 1900s because wolves had guns now. 

Erica’s eyes were in her phone. "That's the third text in a row. Does Peter seriously think this is our first funeral?"

 

It was Stiles’ turn to grill Deaton. On the secrets his godfather had kept.  
“I had no idea that you and Derek had met. I did not find it necessary to mention Beacon Hills- considering how it has bad memories. For all of us. And I thought it best to leave it in the past. As for me being Talia’s old emissary, that was in another lifetime.”   
Stiles squinted, mouth open. “Can’t you just have a normal answer? Not an enigmatic one?”

 

 

Derek’s mic was in his sleeve. He put in his earpiece.

Ignoring Stiles, Deaton turned to address Derek. “The subgroups affiliated with the three main groups are going to be there. I want to doubt that anyone would cause trouble on a day like this, but I can't be sure.”

There would be close to 400 people filtering in throughout the funeral. Hundreds more had wanted to attend but couldn’t, for various reasons.

With higher ranked members, orders were passed down through a leveling system. The boss didn’t directly deal with the lowest subordinates, they just coordinated mass movements and directives. Today would be different.

There were going to be weapons at the funeral. It would be impossible to regulate that kind of thing on such a large scale.   
There would also be other private security. But they had no weapons, that, Derek made sure of.

Stiles and Deaton were confident that no one would try anything, for the sake of John’s memory and the mobster honor system, but that same faith did not extend to Derek and the betas.

 

As Deaton made his exit, he turned and warned, “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown- Watch him closely, Derek.”

 

“Fantastic. An open bar and hundreds of mobsters with guns who don’t get along,” Jackson remarked when Deaton was gone.

Three hours of prep time. An hour drive. Another hour of prep time. The whole process of the funeral, maybe four or five hours. Procession, visitation, burial. Another hour drive. They’d get back to the hotel around nine in the evening, if everything went according to plan.

Derek sifted through the profiles Boyd had drawn up for those attending the funeral. It only had the big ones; the ones who posed the biggest threat. It was an open 'event' so getting everyone's profile was impossible.  
"The funeral will be a shark tank," Erica mumbled. Her tone was read loud and clear, despite the volume of her words. ‘Should Stiles just skip out? It would be safer’.  
Stiles turned away sharply. "I know that. He was the most high profile mutant boss in the country. Everyone is coming. To see John the Undefeated. Everyone knows it's a shark tank. If I'm too chicken shit to show up to my own dad's funeral then they'll think I'm weak."  
"Let them think what they want, then," she pressed.

Now was not the time for pressing. Derek glared sharply at her. She swallowed and looked back down at the profiles.

"In this life, reputation is everything." Stiles nodded to himself. "And this is my dad's funeral. I'm going."

Stiles went back to his room.

 

Erica stood by the window, arms crossed over her chest. She looked out at the light grey sky. "You think it'll be like this all day?"  
Jackson leaned back in his seat to look at the sky. "Probably. Because we have to live up to every cliché ever." He indicated their matching, all black suits and button down shirts, replacing their usual white ones.

Boyd watched a lamp flicker. "What is it with these hotels? All the tech has been bugging too."  
"Must be the storms we've been having," Erica said.

Derek didn't comment on the betas' chatter. 

Isaac was staring at him as he asked, "What about when he's giving the eulogy? He'll be standing in front of a crowd of mutants criminals."  
"I'll be standing close enough to Stiles. Jackson, Isaac, and Erica will be moving through the crowd, looking out for anyone. Boyd will be on the cameras. We'll all have our pieces. And hopefully, the Argents’ guys that will be the on-site security will do a thorough enough job checking for concealed weapons."  
"Even though the Argent's are part of the security problem."  
Derek exhaled. "I'm aware of that." To Boyd and Isaac he said, “Boyd and Isaac, I need two of you to head to the cemetery. Start prep work there and coordinate with the Argents’ men."

He left to check on Stiles.

 

He was met with Konstantin in the hallway. He had a black laundromat’s clothing bag thrown over one shoulder, fingers holding the hanger.

 

At Derek’s blank expression, Konstantin said, “Deaton told me he’d told one of your betas I was coming.”

News to Derek. He’d ask Jackson later, who was in charge of clothing. Who was sure to have been the one to fail to communicate Konstantin’s predetermined visit.

Instead of just giving him the clothing and leaving, Konstantin said in his harsh British accent, “To be clear, I’m not happy with what has transpired.”   
Of course he knew about Garrett and Violet.

He’d found out from Stiles that Konstantin had been John’s right hand. And had helped raise Stiles when they moved to New York.  
Which explained his unfounded hatred towards Derek. Or maybe that had more to do with Stiles’ ability to sneak out.

“I expect you’ll receive some resistance,” Konstantin said, passing the hanger to Derek.  
Both knew he wasn’t there just to drop off Stiles’ clothes.

His next words told Derek he was right.   
“Hale Security is famous,” Konstantin said. “You know what it’s like to have people die. How long did it take you to break?”   
Derek didn’t answer. “Break,” he repeated.  
“Fall off the edge of grief.” He looked annoyed, like he was trying to help but Derek wasn’t getting it. “I watched my parents get blackbagged in the 60s. It took me a week,” Konstantin explained.

Both of them knew it didn’t happen the moment it happened. It was a trauma response; when something with such a strong emotional implication happened, you didn’t react to it. Not right away.

Derek could only match in Konstantin’s honesty. Putting aside personal feelings, Konstantin was just trying to help. “Two days.”   
It took him two days after the fire, when the surviving Hales were in New York and he had woken up that morning with a pit of despair in his gut, which led to the break down. That gaping hole of ‘something is not right. Oh yeah, my family is dead’.

“It’s the fall. It hasn’t happened for him, not yet. He’s on the edge,” Konstantin said.

Derek nodded and Konstantin turned to leave, without seeing Stiles.

 

He’d been warier around Stiles, after that first night, when Derek had been so open. Stiles’ supernatural sense of perceptive observation didn’t help. Warier still, after his wolf had taken over in front of him. Maybe not wary, but ‘aware’. 

He wasn’t necessarily happy that Stiles knew about his control issues, his broken anchor. But it was unavoidable. Only days into the contract and Stiles had pieced together months of pack discourse.   
It was annoying. But, in a way, freeing.   
Because Derek and the pack didn’t have to tip toe around it anymore. Stiles already knew so there weren’t things to have to worry about him finding out.   
If you don’t want someone to chase you, you stop running.

 

Derek raised his knuckles to the door and waited before rasping. Stiles’ heartbeat was normal- or at least, normal for him. It was always too fast- too light and fluttery. 

 

Derek knocked before he entered Stiles' room.

He was holding a bloodied cloth to his nose.

"What happened?" Derek asked, with the black clothes cover folded over an arm.  
"Don't worry about it. I get nose bleeds all the time, pretty it's hereditary."

“Konstantin stopped by. To drop off your clothes.”  
“Why didn’t you get me?”  
He didn’t want to betray the disdain he felt towards the man so Derek chose to say nothing.

He looked at the clothing cover over one arm with contempt. "I thought bodyguard didn’t mean nanny." He stepped into the bathroom.

Stiles being a little shit?  
Unheard of.

He could see him brushing his teeth in the mirror of the ensuite. 

More resistance?  
Derek didn’t get enough of that from him. "I do whatever you need. The job has multiple utilities. Deaton wants you to wear this. He told me you already have the tie and pants." Derek removed the protective bag and held up the black button down, fitted jacket, and matching waist coat. 

Stiles' eyes, once he emerged from the bathroom, drifted between the clothes and Derek's face. An 'are you kidding?' expression on his face. "Uhh, I'm good. I'm all about the casual and comfort. And so was my dad so…"

But that was before. Stiles was no longer in line for succession, he was succeeding.

He stared at Stiles. “Do I look amused to you?”  
“I don’t know, I’ve only seen you with one expression.”  
Derek’s face didn’t change from a scowl.  
Stiles snapped his finger. “That’s the one.”

Derek set the suit on the bed silently.

There was a folded piece of paper on the bed that Stiles had been reading over and over again for the last two days. The eulogy. Paper touch worn and ink barely legible. 

"Dude, my dad gave up on trying to get me to wear this shit."  
"'Image is everything'. Especially because you're the new head-"  
"Not really."  
"-technically you're the head so put on the damn clothes."  
"Or what? You'll put them on for me?"

He ignored the flirtatious subject change; Stiles was a master of it. What an annoying pathology. 

"In public, you're the untouchable, unreachable, professional looking boss surrounded by other suits. Until you open your mouth," Derek added.  
"And in private, I'm the nerd with hoodies and flannel?"  
"Yes."  
"I'll think about it."  
"You'll do it."  
Stiles touched the dark fabric of the button down shirt. "Maybe."

 

There was a certain necessity for wearing suits, which created complications. His and Stiles’ world were all about face, how people saw you. They needed to come off as sharp and untouchable. Walking in a group in public, even civilians knew something was up with them (a group of people in black suits, surrounding another person. Yep, even normies knew to steer clear).  
But suits were not your friend in a fight.   
If it were up to him, he’d fight in sweatpants.

 

Stiles walked out of the bathroom, hair styled more formally than it usually was, swept to the side with product. Derek gave him a once over.

Derek decided that black was Stiles' color. The dark clothing brought out his pale skin, though not in an unpleasant way. The dotting of moles stood out even more. Splashes of color on a white canvas. The three piece suit was form fitting. It showed off his slender waist.  
Derek, as predatorial as it was, wanted to see what was under the black clothing. His mouth watered. His eyes wandered past the collar, down the skinny tie, to the black belt. Then lingered a little lower. 

Stiles didn’t notice. He was adjusting his spiral, matte black cufflinks. "How do I look?"  
He looked… Derek swallowed. He looked good. Instead, Derek said, "Like you're going to a funeral."  
Stiles looked down at himself. "Well. I guess that's the point, right?" He turned to fiddle with his tie.

The view from behind was better. The pants hugged him in all the right places. His little ass was tantalizing and Derek really shouldn't have been thinking that way about Stiles. Especially because it was Stiles.

As a distraction, Derek said, “You need to keep that on you. He tipped his head towards the slight ankle- bulge under his fitted pant leg.  
Stiles looked down to where the knife was barely visible. Only if you knew it was there could you put together that it was a knife. “Yep. Got it.”

The knife had been a gift from his dad for his thirteenth birthday, Stiles had told Derek. It was a switch blade, no longer than the palm of his hand. A stiletto style, with a silver button on the black handle to activate the blade. Stiles kept it in a dark leather ankle holster. One he was supposed to have on him at all times, or as was Stiles’ way, when he remembered.

“I’m serious.”  
“I know you are.”

 

Derek left him momentarily to talk to Erica and Isaac. When he came back, he asked, “Ready?”   
Stiles looked up from his book. It was a modified copy of Unifying a World Apart. “Yeah.” He closed the book and slid it under his pillow before joining Derek at the door. Stiles had the note in his hand, the one that had been on the bed. He crumbled it up and threw it in the trash.

To make conversation, Derek said, "I've thought about putting you in Kevlar but I don't think that'd do any good. Snipers would take a kill shot. Base of the neck, probably." After John’s shooting, they’d make it count. Make it instantaneous.  
"So you're my bullet proof vest?" Stiles asked.  
Derek didn’t answer, because the answer was obvious. 

 

They were in the lobby when she appeared. 

Her neck was long, limbs possessing the willowy look of a tree. Her skin dark, undertones of blue.  
Her eyes were charcoal and almond shaped, turned upwards in a distinctly non-human way. Cheek bones high and face thin, black hair dreaded and pulled back in a ponytail of locs. 

A little catch of breath escaped Stiles' mouth. "Moira..."

The betas had not grown up around older mutants, being mundane to begin with. But Talia had been well liked among the Old Ones. Derek’s mother herself had been a little girl during the Razing but she collected allies. So the old world wasn’t a strange concept in Derek’s mind, but a half-formed picture from the stories he’d heard as a child.

Her aura didn’t give her away, because Derek hadn’t seen anything like it before. A bit flowy, like Lydia’s. But she was much, much older. A true relic of the Old World.

She had no smell.

The Old Ones gave away their age in movement. They moved like the events in the world meant nothing, they’d happened a million times before and would happen a million times again.  
Moira was a perfect example.

“How did she find out-” Jackson began.  
“Don’t worry about it. She’s safe,” Stiles interrupted. Their eyes were locked, amber to charcoal.   
“But-”  
“She’s safe,” Stiles said again to Jackson, more forcefully. He was looking at her, eyes changing to a richer color. Something like brass. He was stepping past the betas towards her. Jackson stopped him by the wrist, getting ready to growl at the woman.  
“Jackson, she’s fine,” Derek barked. This wasn’t a day to give Stiles a hard time, even he could recognize that. She didn't emanate any killing intent, which didn’t necessarily mean anything but Stiles brightened when he saw her and that was enough for Derek.

Stiles ripped his wrist from Jackson's grasp. "She can't hurt me if she wanted to. Look-" He pointed at her legs.

Their eyes traveled down the length of her short dress. Knee, shin, calf- floor. Her legs faded into nonexistence. 

"She's astral projecting, using bilocation," Stiles said by way of explanation. “Where are you right now?”  
Moira shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

With an hours before the actual funeral, they could afford to delay.

 

Her movements were graceful; fluid. Like she was gliding across the floor instead of walking.  
They went to Stiles’ room, and though Stiles completely trusted the woman, that did not extend to Derek. He didn't know the limitations to astral projection. He insisted on being in the room. Neither seemed too bothered, more preoccupied talking to each other. Catching up. 

"Your mother was one of the last daughters of the Old Spirits, as well as a friend to us for a long time. And by extension, your father."  
Stiles nodded, glassy eyed. “That means a lot me. And I know it’d mean a lot to him.”

 

"Your future has always been a mystery to me. Hidden behind thick curtains. But him-" she looked Derek up and down. "-his future… I trust you've read his cards?"  
"Yes."  
The corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled warmly. "Good boy. And the ending?"  
He shrugged. "Bleak."  
"The future is not set in marble, young one." She watched him, gaze appraising. “You must give him less of a hard time. He will be your friend- if you let him in. Survival will not be the hardest part. It’s keeping all your hope alive when all the rest of you has died.”

“The hope of man is written in sorrow,” Stiles said.

They were having a conversation Derek heard but didn’t understand.

She considered that. "There is still time to change it."  
"Some futures can’t be changed," Stiles said.

Derek wasn't clear whose future he was talking about.

"I do not change the future, young one. I merely predict it,” Moira said.  
"But by knowing it, you can change it, right?"  
"Sometimes you cannot change Destiny's mind, no matter the knowledge of what is to happen. She is quite stubborn. And at times, what destiny unites, life divides."  
Stiles scrubbed a hand over his face. “Destiny is a very strong word to be throwing around this early in the morning.”

She turned from him. “Here. A gift.” A solid candle materialized in her hand, one that Stiles took. “You will accept it,” she said, tone leaving no room for argument.

Stiles held it. The white wax that seemed normal but radiated immense power-  
A Babylon candle.

Rare and highly illegal. Class D contraband.

“When you need to leave somewhere, command it with all of your heart and soul, and the candle will take you away. Only once, so use it wisely.”

She turned her charcoal gaze to Derek. “The solid one, the lost, the edge.” To Stiles, “The moving one, the vibrant, the clay.” She stood, smiling coyly at Derek. “Treat him well.” 

Which Derek thought was an odd way of affirming he’d preform his bodyguard duties optimally- 

“This form is hard to maintain for extended periods. The ceremony will be a peaceful one all the same, with your capable security.”  
Derek watched as Stiles took the comment for what it was: she wouldn't be attending the funeral. But it would be safe.   
Stiles nodded, swallowing audibly. “I still appreciate you coming to see me.”

She nodded to him and evaporated into thin air.

 

“The candle is only good enough for a trip to and from one place.” Stiles picked at the wax. “At least it has a built-in return ticket?  
Jackson entered the room. He’d been listening in. “No, that’s not what she said. The candle stays in the same place, so you have a one-way ticket to that singular place. Then you walk your ass back from wherever it took you and then have one more ticket to that same place, where you can then walk your ass back again.”   
Stiles made a mocking face at Jackson as he turned the candle over in his fingers.

“I’m confiscating this,” Derek said, making a grab for the candle.  
Stiles clutched it to his chest. “Why?”  
“I’m not having you sneak out again. And definitely not with magic like that.”  
“Dude, I don’t think I have enough will to get away from you in my body to get that thing to actually work.”  
Which Derek would have taken as a compliment any other time. Not when dealing with a Babylon candle, however. “Then why do you want it right now?”  
“Because maybe I want to be able to say I have an actual Babylon candle in my possession? And I promise, I’m not going to waste my one opportunity just to toke up.” He shrugged. “It’s more of a novelty anyway. The chances of it working are almost nonexistent. I have a better chance rubbing the next lamp I see and a djinn coming out.” He flipped the candle over in his hand. “Though, if she’s giving me this, it’s not just a gift. Anything from her is never just a ‘gift’.”  
“Oh , even better,” Jackson said.

Babylon candles were something not to be trifled with. They could put too much stress on the body, resulting in extreme sickness or even death. And you had to be specific. If you thought, ‘I want to go to the beach’, you could end up in the middle of the ocean.  
It was serious business.

 

Derek saw his chance and took the candle from Stiles’ hands. He handed it off to Jackson, to go put in the magic utility chest. Jackson looked smug. “When we get the safe house, you can have it back.”  
“But that could be for a long time.”  
“Then you better hope it doesn’t take forever, then.”  
Stiles didn’t make an attempt to run after Jackson. Just said, “Sometimes the candle itself doesn’t want to work,” like that made it any better.

 

“Who is she to you?” Derek asked, as they headed back to the lobby.  
“She’s uh, she’s like my aunt,” Stiles said. In a way that meant, ‘we’re not related at all’.  
"What did she mean? About the future."  
"She's an oracle. Greek Divination and all that."

Jackson, joining them by the entrance, asked, “How did she, by the way, find you? It’s a security issue.” His arms were crossed loosely over his chest. Poised almost lazily, but it was obvious he was ready to pounce at any hint of danger.  
Stiles shrugged. "Anyone skilled enough can find me by scrying."  
"Scrying is a lost art.”  
"It is. Which is why I said anyone skilled enough. And it's actually a lot harder to find me, because of my mutation."  
Jackson was about to ask, 'and what mutation would that be?', when Stiles' personal phone rang.  
"It's Deaton," he said, before answering the call. "...Yeah, sorry. Moira came by...I'll tell you. Yeah, alright.... See you."

 

“What’s the most physical pain you’ve ever been in?” Stiles asked as they drove. He’d been fidgeting in relative silence, before the question.  
Saying that it was the death of his family members would be too depressing. So Derek answered instead with, “Getting a tattoo.”  
“Really? Where?”  
“My back.”  
“You found an artist with a legal permit to tattoo wolves?”  
“My father did it. It’s my family crest, so it was a rite of passage.” And Derek didn’t trust anyone else.  
Stiles nodded. “That’s hardcore. Can I see it?”  
“No,” Derek answered, because why not? And then, because he had a momentary lapse in judgement or overestimated Stiles’ ability to be a decent and uncomplicated person, asked, “Isn’t it your turn?”  
“To what?”  
“Answer the question.”  
Stiles smiled. “I never said we’re playing the question game.”

Derek glared into the rearview instead of coming up with a witty retort. He’d been doing that too much.

“You’re the one that couldn’t follow the very simple rules I’d laid out. This is your fault. Now I’m just going to ask unprompted questions.”  
“That’s not how a conversation works.”  
Stiles offered a shrug. “What can you do?”  
“Not be an absolute twat, for starters.” Damn, he was trying not to be antagonistic. Not on a day like this.  
“You’re meaner than any bodyguard I’ve ever had.”  
“I like to do things a little differently.” So much for keeping it professional. Stiles brought out the banter in him.

But maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing. Bantering with him, antagonizing him. Because as long as Stiles was focused on harassing Derek, he wasn’t focusing on the fact that he was about to watch his father be buried and not be able to show any emotional reaction.

Derek checked to see the Escalade behind him.

Mount Zion in Queens would’ve been an easier drive.

“Your dad, he wanted to be buried?”  
“Yeah. That was the one human thing he couldn’t let go of.”  
“And he didn’t want to be buried in Beacon Hills?”  
“No. To him, that's the place where the old John died. It's where his wife died, his child almost died, and where society failed him.”  
“Where’s your mom buried?”  
“My mom didn’t want to be buried. So she was cremated and he spread her ashes in the forest. Because that’s what she wanted.”

That’s what Derek had done for his family. Their bodies were turned to ash. And he’d spread their ashes in the reserve.  
The part of Laura they could find, Derek had left in Mexico. Buried under the moon in a spiral.

Stiles' finger traced around the droplets of water on the outside of the window. They seemed to move with his touch against the glass. "You've had to protect a lot of mobsters, right?"  
Derek spared a glance at him in the rear view, sitting there in his suit. Smelling like sadness and anxiety. "Yes. Mundanes."  
"And are they usually guys?"  
"Yes," Derek said cautiously, uncertain where the conversation was headed.  
"OK. So do you ever have rich, trophy wife, cougar-types hit on you? When you're protecting their husbands?"  
Derek huffed, taken by surprise. "Constantly."  
"I can only imagine. And you probably stand there really stoically and say nothing."  
"That's exactly what I do."  
It was nice to hear Stiles’ laugh.

 

 

The funeral was upstate, in an older cemetery. Hidden from any paps and journalists and news reporters. Tantum had a publicity group working on making the funeral invisible; to the world of news, it was supposed to be at a different sight at a different time. They also paid off some of the guys they had in the police force do some cover up work and make the nearly hundred people gathering invisible.

 

It wasn’t a traditional funeral. There would be no viewing of the body. The closest thing to a wake would be held after the internment, when everyone gathered to celebrate John’s life.

They met at the venue before the procession, where the not-wake would take place. It was large, in a modern style, with an open floor plan and floor to ceiling windows.   
The building staff was setting up the main room. 

There were some hallways to the left and right, which had restrooms and staff rooms and other rooms for sitting. 

The main room had a wall lined with 'craft services' parallel to a picture of John with a black ribbon and a table, which was already filled with offerings and candles. There were circular tables and chairs sprinkled throughout, lining the walls. 

 

Deaton met them at the venue. He talked in hushed tones to Stiles for a couple of minutes, before they stood and hugged. Nodding to each other in confirmation.

Derek took the opportunity to talk with the event staff and further coordinate with the betas. They were the Argents’ people. The other security there was supplied by the Alphas- he talked with them too.

 

“All of these other private security guys are putting me on edge,” Erica said, arms crossed.  
Derek just said, “Good.”

 

He smelled Scott before he saw him. He was an omega, something Stiles had failed to mention when he’d said, "Don't worry, my best friend's a wolf. I get you and your pack dynamic stuff, and your wolfy needs. Oh, and he’s also from Beacon Hills.”

Deaton pulled Derek aside for last minute advice and to discuss other potential security issues. Derek kept the two teens in his line of sight. They were standing closely, Stiles with his hands in his pockets. Scott was talking, and the other was nodding slightly. Derek spotted a smirk. 

Scott pulled him in for a hug a couple of minutes later, saying more things in low tones. Derek could’ve listened in, hell, his wolf was begging him to. But he didn’t. It was a private moment. And some things, even bodyguards, weren’t supposed to be privy to.

 

Personally, Derek had nothing against Scott. Or omegas, really. But something about an omega male hugging Stiles had him on high alert. His wolf was stalking forward, hackles raised. A low, warning growl at the other wolf.

"Who changed him?" Derek had asked.  
"One of those rogue alphas you sometimes hear about on the news. And his dumb ass was wandering around in the woods during a full moon. His alpha was taken to a detention center. And you know what that means."  
Everyone knew what happened at those detention centers.   
Scott was an omega with an executed alpha. 

Scott had pulled his phone out and was showing Stiles something as a distraction.

 

He didn’t dislike Scott or anything. He knew it wasn’t Scott’s fault he was an omega. He knew that. His wolf didn’t. Even though mundane society was trying to erase pack borders and territory disputes, it was hard. Pack dynamics were instinctual. 

 

Scott left after that to do work for Deaton. Something about the wards.

 

Stiles and Derek stayed behind with Deaton before the drive to the cemetery.

Deaton was giving Stiles a list of people that could not attend. For obvious reasons. A prolific public figure going to a suspected kingpin’s funeral- well.

“And the senator sends his condolences.” Deaton was reading off a handwritten list. “And a large sum of cash.”  
Stiles scoffed. A consolation prize for his father’s death. “You’ll be handling the gifts? And cards, right?”  
Deaton nodded. “Rest assured. And our contract bounty hunter can't make it. Something's come up. She sends her regards."  
Stiles nodded, expression unchanging.

More names, more people who wouldn’t be coming, to Derek’s pleasure.

“Moira came to see me. Are any of the others going to come?” Stiles asked.  
“You can never be sure with them,” Deaton said, crossing items off his list. “Moira- did she give you anything? Words or otherwise?”   
“Yeah. A Babylon candle.”  
Deaton’s eyes widened. “It’s best if you keep it. Moira’s gifts-”  
“Are never just gifts, yeah, I know.” Stiles gestured with him thumb to Derek. “That’s what I tried to tell sourwolf.”  
Derek remained steadfast. “Having something like that is still a risk.”

 

Konstantin walked side by side with Scott.   
Scott looked remarkably uncomfortable. Or maybe a mixture of healthy fear and respect. There was probably a story there.

At the death stare Konstantin gave Derek, that Derek gave right back, Stiles nudged his shoulder. “Come on, don’t be like that. I was the one who snuck out.”

So that was the reason for Konstantin’s seemingly unfounded resentment. 

“Yes, but you’re the crafty teenager, he, working in security, should’ve foreseen that.”  
“It was my fault for underestimating him and ignoring the advice of others, I take full responsibility.” He only agreed completely because he knew it would piss off Konstantin more.

“You’re too soft on him, you break every time,” Deaton remarked.  
Konstantin almost huffed. “Do not.” 

 

They chatted a bit longer before it was time for the procession.

 

The day had started overcast. Nothing more than a light mist. The weather report had called for sunny skies.

The rain started mid-morning. How fitting for a funeral.

 

Derek had buried people. He'd been to funerals. Too many. 

Funerals had different types. There were celebrations, usually when an old wolf passed away. He'd remembered those, when he was younger. Laughing, fond anecdotes, kind words. There were distinct types.

The 'crime type' of funeral was in a class of its own. It was an aggressive display of power. Dominance. A shark tank. The grieving family was put on display. Those invited weren't just loved ones; anyone was game to ogle the deceased and family.

John Stilinski's funeral was no different. Though Derek had never been to a service with someone of the man's caliber and station. All of the groups were there. Enemies, as well. To see John the Undefeated, well, just that. Allies, friends, people he'd helped, worked with, and say goodbye to the man they'd called a friend. But all were there to see the successor. Let's see if the new boss cries. Will he openly mourn the loss of his father? Is he that weak?

Stiles was alone. There was no family to support him. It was Derek's team and Deaton. They weren't family. At least Derek had had Laura. And Peter and it felt kind of right for a while.  
But Stiles had no one.  
It was sickening.

Derek had to give him credit. He was newly orphaned and being paraded around in some cruel ritual and he kept a straight face.

But Stiles handled it well. Obviously, he'd been preparing. Deaton had probably gone through it with him a hundred times. Do not show weakness. Derek imagined a much younger Stiles being told by his father that one day he would die, most likely killed, and that he had to be strong. 

 

Stiles' emotional and mental safety was just as important as his physical. Though Derek was better at the physical threats. Those he could fight off. Kill. It was harder when the enemy was one's own mind. That's where some of the true danger lied. A client bombarded with tragedy after tragedy, bogged down by stress, was less likely to function at 100%. That was truly dangerous.   
A stressed and anxious mind was not as rational and easy to protect. 

Deaton had pulled him aside. You are, in the underworld's eyes, a permanent fixture at Tantum. In the entire syndicate. And Stiles will be vulnerable, more so than any other day- any other time during the funeral, even. These people show no shame. I.e. they wouldn't hesitate to stab Stiles in the back as he carried his last remaining parent to his final resting place, despite the honor system.

Derek’s wolf joined the procession, trotting along Stiles’ side.

 

Stiles was wet from the procession. Hair dripping into his face.

He stared blankly into the grave as a siren sang of amazing grace. The grief in the air was suffocating.  
Derek looked into the ground, imagining what Stiles felt. Because he'd felt the same thing. Sadness, probably. Anger, definitely.

 

Stone angels served as guardians around the cemetery.

The smell of the rain and fresh air, far from the city. And Stiles- sadness and electricity and rain.

 

"He was loved by all. Human, mutant. Species didn’t matter. And his vocation had no baring; John was a great man. Even his enemies had the greatest respect for him," Deaton said to the crowd of black suits. “Greater than the sorrow from his death is the joy that he spread in his life.”

 

A spiral marked John’s gravestone. The symbol, to so many, that meant hope.

 

The main members of the Argent and Alpha group stood opposite each other, the coffin separating them. The members of Tantum, with their spirals bared, faced Stiles, who stood next to the priest.  
People stood shoulder to shoulder, sprinkled throughout the other headstones. People on the gravel path and in the grass.  
A sea of black. 

Konstantin stood behind him, with Scott and Derek to either side. Deaton had stepped to the other side of the priest as he gave a short sermon. 

Stiles was biting his lip. His bruised skin was pale.

"We have John's successor here, to say a few words." The priest gestured with tattooed hands to Stiles and stepped aside. 

Though Stiles still held himself and walked, eyes forward and shoulders back, while everyone else around him crawled- it was feigning strength.  
Which still made it strength nonetheless.

"For those of you who didn't know, my dad used to be a police officer. He made it to sheriff. And then my mom, Claudia, was killed in a random drive by. He wasn't allowed to work the case, there was a conflict of interests and strict policies on family related case. Endless red tape. He pushed for his fellow officers to solve it. But the case was closed a short three days later. Chalked up to supernatural violence and nothing more.”

The crowd had heard the story. Murmurs of the injustice.

“But my father’s philosophy was that every man must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats.”

The words pained Stiles. Not because it was his father’s eulogy: because it was the head boss’ eulogy.

Derek looked at out the crowd. Gerard and Chris Argent had their heads bowed, eyes closed. Deucalion, with cane and glasses, talked to his packmate and right hand man, Ennis.  
Ennis was saying something lowly in his ear. It wasn’t that Derek couldn't hear the words, it was that he was speaking in another language. Probably because there were mutants everywhere.

“So he 'took up arms against a sea of troubles', so to speak and came to New York. A simple mission in his mind; fight for mutants. Protect mutants. And he did that. He helped people; mutants and humans alike. And it wasn't easy. In this life, however long we're here, I think all of us have one wish. To be wanted. To help people. To be remembered. Not many get all of those. And those who do, their deeds die with them. The work we do on this earth will die with us. But not my dad's. His legacy will live on in the people.”

Deaton was standing with hands clasped in front of him, face solemn. His focus was completely on Stiles.

“In a moment of true irony, Dad’s funeral is, of course, happening during an Eagles game. I’d like to think that if there is an afterlife, Dad is flipping the remote control between being here with all of us and the game. And he’d be doing so for two reasons… first, let’s be clear, he’d want to know the score of the game.” 

There was hum of weary laughter. 

“But second, he’d be profoundly uncomfortable with all of us saying these wonderful things about him. So, as we say goodbye to my father and say all the things we love so much about him, I just want you to imagine that laugh of his – and picture him changing the channel to the   
Eagles game, because he could have never sat through this.”

Stiles held his poise like an ancient masterpiece: grandiose, beautiful, and slowly falling apart.

 

The rain was pouring again. Derek put the umbrella up, covering Stiles. 

He stared at the casket as it was lowered. 

Deaton was saying something along the lines of 'if you would please move inside, to start the----'

The umbrellas were like a collection of black hive work. A colony of dark clothing and slow steps. Moving in a stream through the cemetery. Rain pounding down, wind howling. Almost like a lamenting song, mourning John's loss.

Bells tolled in the distance.

Derek stayed behind with him, as did Scott. He gestured for his team to leave.

Deaton cast Stiles a look, who didn't return it. The vet then looked at Derek, who nodded in understanding. 'I want to stay with him. But I have about two hundred mobsters to keep track of. Take care of him'.

Stiles didn't move when the people started walking away, all putting their own umbrellas up. A reverse stream of black, moving away from the grieving. 

He watched every scoop of soil as it drummed against the coffin, watched as his father got further and further away, until there was just muddy dirt.

Red spider lilies and anemones decorated the grave.

“In the Victorian language of flowers, the anemone symbolizes the death of a loved one,” Stiles said to no one in particular.  
Derek also knew that Anemones could stand for dying hope or the feeling of having been abandoned.

Stiles stepped away from the umbrella. Rain drenched him immediately. His hair stuck to his forehead and water raced down his face. He looked younger like that. More vulnerable, especially with the bruises against his pale skin. He truly looked like the orphan he was. Derek couldn’t tell if he was crying. Which was the idea, he guessed.

Derek folded the umbrella. If Stiles' refused to stay dry, then he had to follow. Though, for this little shit, he didn't mind so much.  
Stiles pulled a miniature bottle of Jack Daniels from the breast pocket of his trench coat, which Derek had not known was in there nor how he acquired it in the first place.   
Stiles unscrewed the tiny black cap and poured it into the already wet soil. He said nothing as he did so, water streaming down his face. His own version of leaving a white rose.

Stiles was whispering. Scott and Derek turned away their gaze. “I’m sorry this world couldn’t keep you safe. May your journey home be a soft and peaceful one. Please, rest in peace.” 

Scott stepped forward and put a hand on Stiles' wet shoulder and pulled him into a hug. They pulled away with blank expressions.  
Scott asked if he was OK, and Stiles nodded, but Derek didn’t think he heard the question. 

 

They walked back to the car in silence.

 

Derek watched Stiles in the rearview. “Good?” He asked.  
Stiles just nodded.

 

Walking back into the venue, there was a woman in the staff's uniform exchanging coats and personal belongings for tickets. And Derek didn't like that. He called on Jackson to take Stiles' wet coat back to the car.

For the sake of keeping appearances, Derek was the only one within reach of Stiles at all times. Though Derek's ear piece buzzed frequently with updates (chatter) from his team.   
Boyd was monitoring cell signals and the CCTV and video surveillance that they'd installed beforehand from the security van. Isaac was on exits while Erica and Jackson were floating. Reporting amongst themselves on suspicious activity. Which described 90% of the people in attendance.

The mingling in the room had turned into a hum of disembodied voices that had his wolf jerking its head around, trying to find one voice to hang onto. One heartbeat. It was dizzying.   
There is soothing chamber music playing. Not enough to drown the hum of people talking, but enough to create a comfortable enough atmosphere.

 

“Now, to start our dance number.”  
Derek raised a brow silently.  
Stiles, reading the inquisitive silence, said, “I would call it the ‘dodge as many people and conversations as I can’ game but doesn’t sound as catchy.” He extended an arm. “Would you be my dance partner for the evening?”  
He didn’t really have a choice but nodded anyway, ignoring Stiles’ outstretched arm.

 

The Argent's men, charged with the basic security, seemed to be doing a good enough job. Derek hadn’t seen anyone flash their piece yet, which was something.

It was a time of eating, drinking, music, and remembrance. People that hadn’t seen each other in years-   
John had been the one to connect many friendships. People loudly told tales of his conquests, full of embellishments or not, Derek couldn’t tell.

There was to be no business conducted at the funeral, Deaton had announced, as any deals made on that day were sure to have ill tidings. 

The attendants of the funeral were mostly what Derek had expected, and at the same time, not what he’d expected at all. The profiles Boyd had been a lot of old, distinguished white guys of various species. But he knew that life was rarely that boring.   
Sports cars sat in the lot outside, every jewel was on display. The air was ripe with consipcious consumption. But there was also the opposite of that.

There were obvious drug addicts, shaky, thin, and nervous looking. As well as brick walls of men with stern, scar-covered faces. Kids Stiles' age and older, blatantly showing off their mutations. No glamours or inhibitors. Because with the syndicate, with John, they were safe and unashamed. 

Derek recognized some as sex workers- because though, from what Stiles had said, the syndicate wasn’t involved in prostitution- some chose to remain in the life of their own volition. And maybe it was biased thinking and stereotyping to assume they were hookers based solely on their appearance, but considering their venue and the people there, Derek didn't think it too far-fetched to see an extremely tall woman in cat heels with heavy makeup and a long, purple wig with matching lace pantyhose to think maybe, possibly, they worked in the sex industry.

 

They weren't all mutant. There was as many humans there as well. Some with tattoos covering every inch of visible skin.  
People from all walks of life.

"If you see anyone especially weird, those are the Waste Disposal guys," Stiles whispered.  
Derek didn't know Stiles' threshold for 'especially weird people' but everyone there looked 'especially weird' to him.

 

Stiles couldn’t keep himself still. Whether it be drumming his fingers against his thigh or fiddling with his cufflinks. 

 

A woman began playing an acoustic version of Candle in the Wind.

Lower members of the syndicate, and the subgroups, were easy to spot. They cast their eyes downward from Stiles’ as he passed and bowed their heads. 

People left tokens of their faith beneath John’s picture. Rosaries, Hamsa hands, flowers of varying meanings. A woman kneeled in front of his likeness, in traditional tznuit dress, mouth moving, words silent.

The smell of burning incense and Myrrh and smudge sticks. People lit candles at every altar, permeating the air with paraffin and wax. People prayed on floor rugs. Some chanted in words from languages Derek couldn’t understand. Pashto, Hindi, Urudu-

 

A group of women began scream-singing, like they’d done during the procession. They were in black, some wore lace veils.  
Derek homed in on the sound.  
“They’re keening,” Stiles said, watching the women in black. “It’s an Irish tradition. A mourning of the dead.”

 

"Hey do you see Nameless Old White-Dude Mobster No. 34 by that fern?" Boyd asked over in Derek’s ear.  
It was Erica who answered, "It's a fichus and yes, I do. Why?"  
"He keeps skirt checking that stripper."  
Derek lifted his hand to his ear. “Keep the chatter to a minimum.”  
Isaac, over the ear piece, ignoring Derek’s words, said, “This is the weirdest funeral ever.”

Derek didn’t respond. Regardless of religion, species, class- everyone was there to honor John in their own rite.

 

The fidgeting wasn't bad in the beginning. Which surprised Derek, because Stiles was naturally fidget-y. From the obvious ADHD, or the anxiety or a mixture of both. Stiles was in constant movement. Which exposed too much.  
It started with an occasional tug at his dark tie. Shifting from foot to foot. But Derek noticed his fingers dancing against his thighs. Touching the bandage on his hand. Shifting eyes. Constant lip biting.  
He could smell the anxiety. And if he could, the Alphas could. They danced around the edges of the room, watching. Waiting.   
And if Derek noticed the fidgeting, anyone could.  
His eyes were rapidly changing color, too quick to pinpoint exactly what color. Which told Derek nothing about the nature of his mutation. Eye color changing was common. Even Derek's own eyes changed.

The rain was picking up outside.

 

Stiles found Danny, the boy from the Den, along with another dark-haired human boy, who was looking around with an even expression, freezing when his eyes landed on the main members of the Argent group.  
"This is my friend, Matt. He works for the Argents," Danny said, when Derek's scowl didn't move from the other boy.  
"I'd hug you or something but this guy's been all growly with anyone who tries to touch me." Stiles nudged Derek’s shoulder.

Danny ran a hand through his hair. "Dude, about Violet and Garrett, I'm so sorry-"  
“No need, you weren’t the one trying to kill me.” Stiles nodded to himself. "They're taken care of. And I'm fine."  
Danny eyed him. "You don't exactly look fine."  
"Girl was like a spider monkey. But I'll heal. And I already have people seeing to your damaged equipment. So no big deal.”

Derek suppressed an eye roll. Oh, no ‘big deal’. It’s not like Stiles was almost assassinated. Danny was the one in charge of the house. So yes, Derek viewed it as partly Danny’s fault, though he remained silent.

Stiles flirtatiously changed the subject to some of their friends, Derek noted, as he tuned them out in favor of scanning the crowd. 

 

The girlfriends, kitsune and werecoyote, joined Stiles as Matt and Danny departed. They avoided Derek's eyes. Which he was OK with. Malia and Kira were their names, if he wasn't mistaken.

He stood next to Stiles, eyes averted to the rest of the room, giving the teens some semblance of privacy. Derek, though he was pretending to not watch, didn't miss Kira slipping something into Stiles' hand when she pulled him into a hug. They exchanged a few words and were off again, probably intimidated by Derek's perma-scowl.

"There are a lot of kids here," Derek noted.  
"They're mainly in the sub groups because the majority can't cut it in a real group."  
“You know the statistics for muttie youth and crime?"  
"No...?"  
"Well, it's not good. Mutants are kicked from their homes, or they run away. And you can forget about foster care for mutants because everyone knows how shitty that is. Our schools have the lowest test scores and funding, the highest dropout rate. A life of crime is sometimes the only option. And my dad knew that."  
The trafficking and prostitution- "Your dad saved a lot of kids, didn't he?"  
Stiles fiddled with his tie. "Yeah. Helped Scott too. His mom died when he was little, his dad was a show no drunk. He was in a crappy group home but better than some, I guess. We were friends as kids until I moved away. Then, when he turned fifteen, he made his way to New York. Got involved with some bad people and when my dad found him, he offered him a job with Deaton."  
"And that wasn't unusual for him to do?"  
Stiles shook his head. "He was just that kind of guy. And kids start out early. Especially when they’re in all human families and are either made into a mutant or born. They become outsiders. Hated. Ridiculed. So they runaway, or get involved with people who say they can make them feel better. Different equals bad. Especially if you're born one way and become something else. Mundies don't like that. Mutties don’t like that." Stiles’ eyes drifted to a tall, wig-wearing prostitute Derek had seen earlier. 

He spoke like he wasn't a teenager himself. And in a way, he wasn't. There was no room for a being a child in the underworld.

 

Stiles rubbed at his forehead.   
"Are you OK?"  
"Headache. It's fine. Though a drink would be fantastic."  
"I can have Isaac run and get you a water bottle-" He looked at Stiles' blank face. "-oh. Not water."  
"Yeah. Not water. The opposite of water."  
Derek caught the glimpse of tall glasses of translucent liquid passing by on trays. And lined on food tables. Wine, probably. Though, Stiles was probably talking about something stronger. "That's not happening," Derek said.  
"We’ll see."

 

Fame was a strange thing. Some men gained glory after they died, while others faded.   
John and the old boss, Donati, were testament to that.

 

Gerard and Chris Argent approached Stiles.   
The elder spoke first. "I was sorry to hear about John. My condolences."  
Stiles nodded curtly. "Thank you."  
The smell of grief spiked. 

“I haven’t seen this many mutants and humans together since the Reformation period,” Gerard said, looking around. Chris stood silently at his side, watching Derek.  
One of the Argent's security tapped on the elderly man's shoulder and he excused himself momentarily to deal with them.

Derek leaned discreetly closer and whispered into Stiles' ear. "Does he always wear that cologne?"  
Stiles huffed, hiding the sound behind his glass. "It's terrible for me. I can only imagine what it's like for you."  
Derek stayed close. "It's unbearable."  
"You poor thing. Putting up with so much for my sake."  
"All part of the job."

 

Scott came up beside Stiles. In his hand was an unopened can of orange Fanta. "Here. No one can poison this." He gave it to Stiles.  
"Thanks, man." He opened the tab.

 

Gerard came back, this time, with more of the Argent family.

There was a teenage girl with brown hair hanging behind Chris' shoulder. Occasionally looking at Stiles, then eyes wandering to Scott's, who was doing his best to stand behind Stiles and pretend he didn’t notice the girl.

Derek watched her intently, unsure of her intentions. He had to make sure she was safe-  
"Dude, can you stop scowling at Allison? She's cool." Stiles touched his elbow momentarily, as Chris and Gerard spoke between themselves of how lovely the service had been.

Without looking away from the girl, Derek asked, "How do you know?"  
"Just trust me on this one, OK?" His steady heart beat and sure tone made Derek slightly less suspicious.

"Are you still getting into fights? I thought you outgrew that when you were fifteen," Gerard said amicably, gesturing with his glass.  
Stiles just put a hand in his pocket and took a drink of his Fanta. "I ran into some people," he said.  
"Well with guard dogs like him, you should have those ‘people’." Gerard was looking at Derek.

Derek’s face, he knew, he could never disguise- the suit of a man could never hide the wolf’s eyes.

Derek stared blankly back. He disliked the elderly ex hunter. And clearly Stiles did too. 

Derek felt Scott leave.

“We’ll be taking a trip to Boston because we’re already on the mainland,” Chris said. His eyes were darting passed Stiles as he said it. He and Gerard left the girl momentarily, to consult their security once again.

The humans in their group were getting too rowdy. 

The girl stepped forward and patted Stiles’ arm, palm sliding over the black fabric of his suit jacket. “The suit looks good.”  
Stiles looked down at himself. “Thanks, I hate it.”  
She smiled, though her eyes betrayed her sadness. “Can I do anything for you?  
“No, I’m fine, Allison,” Stiles said.   
Derek watched him repeat this to everyone, even though he’d probably never been less fine.

Allison departed after that, and the other Argents came back.

 

"Where'd that granddaughter get to?" Gerard asked to no one, scanning the room. She was nowhere in sight.   
And so was Scott.  
They’d been eyeing each other.

Stiles stiffened minutely against Derek's side.  
Derek looked to Stiles, who looked back at him in confirmation.   
Yes, my friends are playing star crossed lovers at my father's funeral, surrounded by criminals who mostly hate each other.

Isaac came on, over his ear piece. “Someone cover me for 5. Bathroom break.”  
Erica sounded off a confirmation.

Deaton approached the two Argents from behind, his feet silent. He tapped a hand on Gerard’s shoulder, who turned to see the vet.

"I apologize for discussing business on a day like this but I really must get this sorted. Gerard, who exactly will be handling the conference in Chicago? It's your group's area so I didn't want to impose by interfering without any due cause..."  
Gerard looked pleased to be asked. "It's taken care of, for the time being. I'll be flying out in a few days, Chris will then return here…"

 

They made their getaway as Deaton distracted the elder Argents.

 

"Exhunters," was all Derek said, in a low tone.   
"See the things is, even though the Argents are mostly bigoted assholes, their stuff is cheaper than the stuff that's in circulation. And their client base is ninety percent mutant so they can't afford to be picky on who they sell to. They need mutants, as much as mutants need them."  
"Poetic justice? Or cruel irony?"  
Stiles was smiling. "Can't it be both?"

Derek had a heavy silence that Stiles picked up on as they walked. 

“Go ahead and ask,” Stiles said.  
“So you used to fight?” He’d seen the scars on his knuckles but Stiles didn’t seem the type for physical altercations.  
“’Fight’ is a very loose term. But yeah. Before I got kicked from my mixed school. It was mainly Scott and I against… whoever I guess. 

The line crackled in Derek's ear. Isaac's voice came on. "Boyd, hey, you see that girl in the hijab? I think she's a relative of an old friend? She keeps checking out the exit doors. Like, a lot."  
There was a pause. Boyd searching for the hijabi on the cameras, presumably. "Isaac, there's a window on that door. She keeps checking to fix her eye makeup."  
Another pause. "I'm an idiot. False alarm."  
Derek could hear Erica's laugh.

 

“I promise you that I’ve been annoying and weird all my life- it didn’t only happen when I left Beacon Hills.” He unconsciously rubbed his knuckles. “And someone had to protect Scott.”  
Scott’s status as an turned omega made him vulnerable. If he was caught fighting at a mixed school…

In all the classes, there were the species that were forced to do something to alter themselves. Dampeners, inhibitor collars, travel bans, imprisonment, glamours- the list went on. Strict code of what was and was not allowed in public spaces regarding mutants. As well as rigid laws regarding self-defense and assault. asylum to mutant fugitives and would not make anyone adhere to the Class system.

 

Stiles narrowly bumped into a human male as they walked. The man apologized, and Stiles kept going.

 

 

 

 

Stiles fingered the watch he’d stolen off of the man and deposited it on a passing waitress’ tray. His aura was that of a dull human. Not reason enough for pickpocketing. He was an outlet for Stiles’ excess energy, more than anything.  
Derek hadn’t seemed to notice the theft.

He threw a glance over his shoulder. He’d thank Deaton later for taking one for the team.

 

Stiles rubbed at his temples. To answer Derek's questioning look, he said, "Just a headache."  
"You get a lot of headaches?"  
"Unfortunately. Inherited that bit from my mom."  
"And the nose bleeds?"  
"Yep. Lucky me," he answered dismissively.

All of those auras, flashing colors, were doing nothing for his headache. He could ask Derek for some wolf leeching but that would make his head feel funny. It was hard to concentrate when it felt like liquid warmth was coursing through your body and he didn’t need any help embarrassing himself further, he had that ability in spades.

Endure and survive, his dad would say.

A minute later and Stiles was ready for a break.  
“Bathroom,” he’d said, and Derek was walking in front of him.  
He checked it out before Stiles walked in.  
“Five minutes.”  
“You’re timing me?”  
Derek didn’t answer, just walked out of the door to guard it.

Stiles had a cast iron bladder and was lying about having to pee, obviously. 

He avoided the mirror on his way to sit in a stall. Avoid the bruises in his reflection. He’d already seen that morning, along with the bruise on his spine from Garrett’s knee, and bruises on his own knees from hitting the ground so hard.  
He didn’t need to see himself, he already had the aches and pains to prove the fight had happened.

He sat on the closed lid, dipping a baggie out of his pocket. There were three pills. It'd be so simple to just dry swallow them right there. They were absorbed quickly. In less than fifteen minutes, the feelings would go away. The hurt. The anxiety- all gone. Swept under a blanket of narcotics.  
It sounded ideal. But he couldn't escape. Not right now. He had to present, in that moment. He couldn't run from it.  
And he wouldn't. Not yet. The running came later.

Loss felt like sickness. There was a queasy feeling he couldn’t quite describe. A certain gnawing of his stomach, a tightness in his heart.

He felt like puking and running away and then drinking himself into oblivion, in that order.

He clenched his eyes shut and tried to slow his breathing. He’d caught his eyes in the mirror before heading to the stall, they were a dark grey.  
Not yet. Not yet.   
Later- fall apart later.   
You can’t right now. Later.

He needed to stay comfortably numb. That way, the tightness in his throat wouldn’t choke him completely.

But how long would the numbness last? He clenched his eyes shut- just until the end of the funeral. He could do it. He had to. It was like he was riding a wave of emotion, only he was grossly unprepared to crest that wave. So he was fighting with all he had against the current dragging him to that crest.

There had been be a chorus, a call and response, to his grief.   
“I’m sorry for your loss,” they’d say.  
“Thank you.” Dull and numbly he’d said it. A jerk response- a reflex he’d developed when his mom was killed. And now he was dusting it off and using it for necessity and niceties. Same old song and dance, because even Stiles knew, with his somewhat ‘different’ mannerisms (his dad’s words), ‘stunted social skills’ (Deaton’s words), he knew the weight of condolences and well wishes from the people ‘grieving’ John.

The blue of the ocean in Moira’s aura had put Stiles at ease, at least for a little bit.

He’d done well, sitting in the comfortable static of his mind, but the eulogy had tightened his throat. 

He’d just have to keep fighting this wave, fighting the ascent to that crest where he could blink without tears clinging to his lashes.

Like Gatsby losing the significance of the green light, Stiles was losing the faith he had in his ability to stay away from his friends. Seeing them had shaken his resolve to push them away.  
Especially Scott.  
He’d told him to go off with Allison, because if he hadn’t, he’d hold onto his best friend and never let go.  
But it was Stiles’ job to protect them. He’d have to start relying on himself, if he wanted to save their lives.

He could’ve taken it out on Gerard. Said something he’d regret later. But he didn’t. He was better than that, he thought. He’d grown up, gotten smarter, grown quieter.

 

He got up to wash his hands.   
He didn’t recognize the eyes in the mirror that stared back at him.

 

Stiles fiddled with the wedding rings around his neck.   
He was his father’s son. He was his mother’s child. He could do this.

Endure and survive.

 

 

 

Stiles came out of the bathroom looking paler than he did going in.   
But he continued his song and dance.

 

Derek was seeing so many new mutations that his ability to see auras was more of a hindrance than anything. The majority of attendees did not have their auras under control, which wasn't surprising. Aura reading, and the subsequent controlling of auras, had fallen out of favor. Leaving people like Derek, and he could only guess what Stiles was seeing, to deal with everyone who wasn't aware of how bright their fox would shine before flashing on and off at odd intervals.  
He shut off that part of himself, rejecting what was essentially the pure manifestation of the power of a person’s mutation.   
His wolf turned sharply on him, glaring up at him. Yes, he understood the ability to see a mutation was a gift. And yes, for now, he was rejecting it, when it was interfering with seeing what was truly important.   
Stiles, and any who could bring danger to him.

They were approaching Konstantin, surrounded by a group of scarred and dangerous men, at the bar.

A wendigo was speaking, spitting vitriol. “This means war-” He got quiet as Stiles came up to Konstantin’s side.  
Konstantin spoke for Stiles. “With who? The bastards who did it are dead. What, you think someone else was involved?” Silence. He continued, “If you have protests, go find their whereabouts first- then talk.”  
The wendigo, drunk, retreated to lick his wounds.

Stiles bumped Konstantin’s shoulder. “What does Altair say? ‘Violence for violence is the rule of the beasts?” They shared a knowing smile.

Konstantin shoved a glass in Stiles’ hand from the bar and raised his own. “To John,” he said.

Stiles and the rest of the men raised their glasses. “To John,” they echoed solemnly. They drank.

As far as the underlings at Tantum knew, everything had ended with John and the shootout. There was no one who hired them, just a group who got lucky and took out the boss after kidnapping his kid.   
“To avoid further violence. Because people are pissed, it’s a blow to the ego and the entire syndicate. Anger leads people to do stupid things,” Stiles had explained to him.  
And if it came out that the group hadn’t been acting independently and had been hired for a bigger purpose than some ransom money, it could lead to witch hunts.   
The subordinates would be angry no matter what, so it was best to let them think the people responsible were all dead, killed by John.

 

Derek heard the tap of cane before he saw the alpha wolf himself.  
Deucalion.

“Ranked No. 1 in America. Ranked in the top five worldwide. Think you’ll be able to steer the ship like your dad? Prevent anarchy and mutiny aboard?” Deucalion asked.  
“For your sake and mine, I hope so.” Stiles took a sip from his drink; the same one he’d been nursing since walking away from the bar. “I heard that Marin couldn’t make it.”  
“You know how it is with Morrell and those dreamers of hers.” Deucalion didn’t elaborate, but Stiles seemed to understand, because he just nodded and verbally said, “I get it.”

He balanced his cane in the crook of his arm, a drink in his other hand. “Derek Hale.” Deucalion stuck out his hand in Derek’s general direction.  
Derek shook it. No need to be overtly unpleasant towards a pack of alphas.  
“A Class D pureblood alpha. Your family is quite the red stain in the history books.”   
The way he spoke of Class rubbed Derek the wrong way, especially because the betas were turned Class Cs.

The men, Marco and Ennis, sized him up as Stiles and Deucalion talked. Marco kept the bookies in line. Ennis was the right hand of the alpha of Alphas.

“Blackbagged, can you believe?”  
“You’re sure?”  
“As sure as you can be with this sort of thing.” Deucalion raised his glass to his lips. “It’s not too unlikely. You know those small time, what do they call themselves, ‘hacktivists’ don’t last long, especially without someone high on the food chain backing them.”

His wolf’s hackles were raised but he willed himself to remain invisible and be the intimidating and silent bodyguard, even if his instincts told him he was surrounded by predators, circling slowly, practically drooling.

The woman with long, dark hair and no shoes was ghosting behind the pack. she wasn’t even faking bureaucracy. Walking in slow, calculated lines. A true predator. Or maybe it was her toe nails keeping her from walking normally. She smiled at Derek when his glare stayed on her a moment too long. Her mouth was filled with razor sharp teeth. A trait, Derek knew, that was not a byproduct of lycanthropy. He didn't know that teeth were effected by healing factors, and that one could file them without the enamel growing back. They were, after all, just like bones. And from experience, bones regrew and healed.   
Fascinating.

The twin alphas had been the ones glaring at his team throughout the evening. Though one seemed more aggressive than the other.   
One seemed more preoccupied going after the human, the one from the drug house. Danny. The other was content to follow around Derek’s team.

"It's refreshing to be around another alpha," Deucalion said, turning to Derek. "We're always looking to expand the pack. If you're ever interested, give us a call."  
"I'm fine where I’m at," Derek responded coolly, well aware of what it took to enter the Alpha pack.  
"But maybe in the future you'll want to pursue something more, a higher-” Deucalion gestured with his hand. “-Power, if you will? Wolves must stick together."  
"Pack sticks together," Derek corrected, allowing no inflection of disrespect- just truth. 'Pack doesn't murder other pack to gain power'.

Stiles was just watching their conversation play out. He took a drink and raised an eyebrow, watching Derek over the rim of his glass, doing a fairly OK job with hiding his amusement. 

Deucalion bristled in that way all people did when they thought they were tough shit, encountering someone else who was on their level. "Do you know where the word 'lycan' comes from?" He asked.  
"Where?" Derek asked tersely because the other alpha clearly wanted to share some bit of trivial knowledge with him.  
"Lycan was the name of the mortal man Zeus confided in when he fancied himself a trip to Earth, masquerading as a mortal man. Instead of worship, Lycan tried to kill him. Zeus then turned him into a wolf as punishment."  
Stiles tapped his finger against his thigh. "Then Zeus decided to wipe out humanity with a flood. But Prometheus first warned two worshippers, Deucalion and his wife Pyrhha, who were the only people to survive the flood. It's good to know you didn't waste your time on that entry level Greek Mythology course, Deucalion,” his tone was light, joking.  
"Stiles, I think some of your friends need you. Questions about something or other," Deaton said, clapping him on the back. Saving Stiles, once again, from having to deal with first class assholes.  
Stiles nodded at Deucalion and Ennis. "Excuse me." 

Of course, the excuse had been a lie. Stiles' friends were dodging around, talking amongst themselves. Trying not to get in Stiles' way, for they knew what a slip could do to him.

Derek followed, refusing to acknowledge the other Alphas. When they were far enough away, he asked in a low, almost inaudible voice, "How did Deucalion lose his sight?"  
Stiles half-laughed, completely lacking in humor. "Oh, that whole blind shtick is a lie."  
Derek didn't react. "He can see, then."  
"Not like you and me. But with his wolfy powers, he can use the sight of a wolf."  
Derek looked at the Alpha's retreating back, as he walked, holding the crook of Deaton’s elbow. "How do you know?"  
"I figured it out when I was like twelve. Mainly through eavesdropping and observation.” Stiles shrugged. “And his aura is off."  
"Off like mine?"  
Stiles eyed Derek. "No, off in a bad way. His is red. Like the color of fresh blood."  
Derek's eyes scanned the crowd, resting somewhere beyond the windowed wall. Keeping his face blank and tone low, he asked, "So I'm off in a good way?"  
"You are," Stiles answered. Though he wasn't sure if he talking about his aura.  
“You can see auras.” Derek knew this, from their first meeting, but asked in lieu of a proper segue.  
“Can't alphas?”  
“Only some. And not the way you do. And it’s only occasionally, not fixed.”  
“Lots of stipulations and uncertainty there,” Stiles said.  
Isn’t everything in the mutant world uncertain-  
“But that’s stupidly obvious, isn’t it? Everything having to do with mutants is fraught with uncertainty. Moving on, can you, dear Alpha-” he mimicked Deucalion’s accent lowly, in a decent and almost practiced impression which led Derek to believe it wasn’t his first attempt, “-see auras?”  
“Sometimes.”  
Stiles nodded. “I don’t have one. That must be weird for you.”  
So Stiles was aware he didn’t have one. “We don’t see auras like you do.” Those alphas who had the gift were only able to see a ‘mutational aura’ (or the weird inverse of that, with mundanes). What Stiles saw was directly connected to life force. Or energy, depending on what mutant ‘expert’ you asked.

 

There was a symbol Derek had a few dozen times. On necks and hands and wrists. And on Stiles' cufflinks. On Tantum’s doors and John’s grave.  
Derek saw another behind someone's ear. Half of their black hair was shaved, exposing it. He leaned discreetly into Stiles' ear, looking at the person. If he recalled, his name was Sehun. He sold weapons from South Korea for the syndicate and ran a chop shop somewhere in Queens. He worked with the Alphas on occasion. "That's the revenge spiral. A sign of vendetta."   
Stiles looked to where he was looking. “Yeah. It's our group's mark, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. You get it when you're first inducted."   
Derek had figured, it was everywhere. "Do you have it?"   
"No. That mark means you're in for life. And my dad didn't want me to make that commitment."   
"You don't want to remain in the life?"   
He stared at Sehun's back absently. "This life has taken both of my parents. When I’m out, I’m out."   
“Where was John’s tattoo?”  
Stiles touched his chest absently. “His was over his heart.”

Over his ear piece, Erica said, "This static is driving me crazy."

 

A man approached Stiles from behind. His movements were quick, steps silent. His face hadn’t been on the list. Derek saw him before Stiles did.

His hands were shooting out of his pockets, right for Stiles-   
Derek grabbed his arm, before the man could try anything.

He gave Derek a disgusted, affronted look and said, "Iidha kunt muallaeanaan bik munjim 'iitlaq dhirae,” in what he recognized as Arabic. 

Stiles turned to see the man, no alarm in his face and laughed. Clearly understanding the language and not afraid of the man who was trying to touch him.  
Derek looked between the teen and the stranger. "What did he say?"  
"He said ‘if you are fond of your arm, release mine’."  
Derek let go, only because he guessed the man wasn't a danger to Stiles. And not because of his threat.

He had shoulder length black hair, slicked back into a low ponytail, tied at the base of his neck, along with a short mustache and beard. But the most distinguishable feature was the Egyptian hieroglyphics tattooed onto his tanned face, one under each eye.

His aura was something akin to fire. 

He smelled like ash and burned clay and sand.

Derek knew instantly he was Old World. Another Class X.

Stiles, looking between the two men staring each other down, said, “Altair, he’s OK, I promise. Well, I mean ‘OK’ as in ‘not a harm to me’, actually I don’t even know. He’s kind of an ass-”   
“Language,” was all Derek said, because he had no other retort. And was hesitant to openly bicker with Stiles.

The corners of Altair’s eyes crinkled. And in perfectly accented English, said, “Good that you are not afraid to stick up for yourself. Stiles is bit of a bully.” He turned fully to Stiles. “And your face- Ah yes, Deaton told me you snuck out and almost got yourself killed. Foolish. But impressive. Was there a balcony?”  
Stiles nodded.  
“But no broken bones or extreme maiming or death so good boy.”

Altair had a blade on him, under his black jacket. The handle stuck out. Maybe a Sabre, Derek guessed.

Stiles almost beamed at the compliment. “Moira visited me this morning.”   
Altair raised a brow. “Where is she?”  
“Somewhere not here. She gave me a gift.”  
“Throw it away.”  
“I’m under strict instructions from her and Deaton not to do that.”  
“She meddles.”  
Stiles shrugged. “Let her meddle then.”

 

Konstantin snuck up behind Altair and clapped him on the back.   
Altair’s face immediately fell, upon turning to see who it was.

“Back from the dead?” Konstantin jibed. He looked between Stiles and Altair “We’re all going out drinking later. You coming?”  
“Of course.” One look from Derek told Stiles the actual answer. He scratched the back of his neck. “Actually Konstantin, raincheck. But I’ll make sure to have Deaton buy out a few bars for you.”  
Konstantin put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and the three of them talked amongst themselves.

 

A passing waitress offered them drinks.   
Stiles grabbed a glass before Derek could coyly stop him.

He offered a scowl but nothing else. Couldn't exactly yell at the boss in public. He had permission. From Deaton. Somehow he didn't think that extended to a gathering of mobsters, though. 

As Stiles took a drink, Derek found himself needing to keep him preoccupied. Discreetly, the way he'd been doing all day, mouth barely moving, tone low, leaning closer to his ear, he asked, "You're bilingual?"

He shrugged, moving a hand to his pants pocket. The other raised the glass to his lips- damn lip readers everywhere. Stiles had been raised in the art of keeping things from professional secret-thieves. "I dabble in a few other languages too. The only reason I learned Latin and Greek was because my mom and her friends would only talk in it and I wanted to know what they were saying. And then my dad met Konstantin and they only spoke Russian so I had to learn that too. Altair was the one who gave me a crash course in Arabic, but I’m no good at speaking it.” Mimicking Altair’s accent, Stiles said, “’You speak Arabic with your guttural American accent’. So I understand most of it, but I don’t speak it.”   
"I don't know if it's sad or impressive that you learned completely different languages for the sake of eavesdropping.”  
"I call it dedication. And it wasn’t just me. Konstantin and Altair helped. “  
Stiles then asked, “Do you know any other languages?" Something in his face and tone made Derek imagine him saying, 'I like my men bilingual' in an over the top sensual voice, which was a comical mental image.  
"Eres un idiota. Y esto es estúpido,” he said. ‘You’re an idiot. And this is stupid’.   
It was the same with Talia and her friends, using Spanish around the house to keep little ears from hearing.   
Stiles looked down into the light color of his glass. He swirled it, licking his cut bottom lip. "You know, you speaking in Spanish really does something for me. All I know how to say is   
‘Donde está la biblioteca’.”

 

Deaton touched Stiles' elbow, leaning into his ear discreetly. He’d found them among the people.   
Stiles’ face changed into a look of surprise and his eyes moved to Derek's. “Hear that? We’re needed outside.” He walked past him, Derek followed. He'd heard their exchanged words but out of respect, he pretended to go along blindly.  
‘We have a guest’.

Her skin was so yellow it was almost green. If she had been human, he would've said jaundice but she was clearly not. Her fingers morphed into black, tree-like talons. Her eyes were like a cat's, pupil an orange sliver. Her voice was a deep baritone when she said, “Stiles.”

Stiles didn't seem at all fazed by her appearance. He smiled warmly.

She was old, but not like Deaton was old. But how a mountain was old.  
He had been from the Old World.  
She’d probably been alive before its creation.

“Life is so many moments, and Death is only one of them,” she said. Was that her way of comforting him…?

“When the bells toll it tolls for thee, and thee alone,” Stiles said. His way of communicating with these ancient beings was something to behold. They spoke English, but also, an entirely different language.

The weirdest part was how similar she smelled to Stiles. Her scent was much older, richer, earthier, but the roots of it all were the same. She smelled like life. Pure life. Like the forest. it was strange and dizzying. Intoxicating. That part was no different than Stiles' scent.

Her aura was a thick veil of power. Raw power.

"I wasn't sure if you'd come."  
"Of course I would. Though I don't think much of who you keep for company." Her cat's eyes were looking in the direction of Gerard and the Argent posse inside the building through the windows, who were standing next to a professionally neutral Deaton. She turned back to Stiles. "He fought well. That level of ferocity is rare in humans. I know that is why Claudia chose him; his strong spirit. And compassion." Distance in her eyes, she said, "Your mother died so you could live. You'd do well to remember that."

Stiles just nodded. “You actually came to the funeral.”  
“We all must adapt.” She was looking around, at the building, at the gravestones that laid beyond it. "I do not understand this ceremony of burying the dead. It's a human tradition that I have never understood. Body is not the same as mind; why honor an empty vessel?"  
Stiles didn't seem offended at the blunt words. "Would you have preferred a Viking funeral?” he quipped. “Funerals aren't really to honor the body. The dead could care less. They're for our sake; the living."  
She nodded once. “I bid him to take his place in the halls of Valhalla, where the brave shall live forever. We shall not mourn him but rejoice, for the one who died, has died the glorious death.”

Stiles’ gaze joined hers, to a place beyond. “That’s one way of looking at it.”

Less than 90% of mutants were from the before the Razing. Or, even rarer, from the Old World: those were the oldest, purest, most powerful: those were the Old Ones. And the fact that Derek had, for sure, seen multiple mutants from the elusive and illegal Class X during the handful of days he’d been on the contract was-  
Derek didn’t know.

The woman turned to Derek. And Isaac, who watched the three of them from the door. But she spoke to Stiles. “Raphael was often accompanied by fifty scholars daily, when Michelangelo greeted him one day and said, ‘you walk surrounded by an entourage like a general’.”  
“And Raphael responded, ‘and you, you walk alone like an executioner’,” Stiles finished.  
She nodded. Her hair was like golden straw. "Remember this, child. Death is not a stranger. She is a family member with a soft, familiar voice."

“Two souls don’t find each other by simple accident.” Her eyes were on Derek’s. “You’re bright darkness and gloomy light.”

He wasn’t sure to who she was referring, Stiles or him.

“’If this belief from heaven be sent, if such be Nature’s holy plan, have I not reason to lament what man has made of man?’”  
“Wordsworth,” Derek said aloud.  
“You’re a fan of the great romantics, the poets of old? You are full of surprises, Derek,” Stiles said.

Suddenly the woman’s eyes were cast upwards, to the grey sky. She looked back to Stiles.   
He seemed to understand, because he said, “Duty calls?”  
She nodded once. “Your protector is shrouded in death. Be wary of this, and accept it,” was all she said, before walking away, vanishing into nothing.

 

“What exactly is she?” Isaac asked, as they walked by him, back into the building.  
“A Valkyrie,” Stiles answered, with a world weariness that spoke volumes.  
“Then why-”  
“Don’t.” Derek cut Isaac off.  
He knew what the question entailed. ‘Valkyrie= knowing what happened to John. They’re supposed to have sway in taking ‘the souls of soldiers’ to their deaths, maybe she either had something to do with it or at least knew of it. Just ask her, she’s Claudia’s friend, right?’.   
There were rules among the bigger players from the Old World. One of those being don’t tell anyone anything.

With great power came great responsibility and no one knew that more than the ones from the Old World. How a seer could utter a simple warning and drastically change history. How a strategic killing or resurrection could change the future. And Stiles, in all of his wit, knew this.   
That didn't make it any easier.

“Fixed points in time that can’t be changed,” Stiles explained as they walked. They were taking their time in the damp outside, before going back into the stuffy building. “I just try not to think about it.”

"What did she mean? About your mom?"  
"My mom…” Stiles stopped, finding his words. “When the drive by happened, she used her body to shield me."  
"Do you remember it?"  
He shook his head. "I woke up and couldn't remember anything. Just that my mom was dead."

 

There was drunken singing. Sea shanties. People laughing, talking. Yelling and roughhousing between members of the groups.

The rain had started back up again.

 

The lights flickered once. A crash of thunder came shortly after. No one in the room seemed bothered. It was just a storm.

The windows on one side of the large, open room lit up with blinding white light.

 

One of the Tantum members was telling a story about John’s early years when Deaton grazed Stiles' arm with his knuckles. Something in the teen's face must've given something away because Deaton’s expression changed. It turned to something harder, akin to fear, for a second before he looked to the man talking.

"Excuse us, it seems like we're needed elsewhere," Deaton pulled out his phone as way of explanation and smiled at the group before leading Stiles away discreetly by the arm.

 

Stiles was silent as they weaved their way, being led by Deaton.   
His eyes were grey.

 

They found an empty room, in the back of the building. Stiles collapsed on a seat immediately, as Derek shut the door, not understanding what was happening, but knowing the severity all the same.

 

"Stiles, focus on me, all right?" Deaton whispered, trying to get Stiles to look at him. "Do you still have the medicine?"  
Stiles' eyes were wide, breathing shallow. He shook his head. "I don't need it."  
To Derek, Deaton said, "Get him out of here."

The scope of Stiles’ panic was growing. Derek looked between Stiles and Deaton, not completely understanding what was happening. Just knowing to trust Deaton. He nodded to the vet. 

 

Derek led Stiles to the back exit, next to the parked cars. He lifted his wrist to his ear. “We're leaving. Right now. Take the exit, just like we planned."  
"-Now? We were supposed to leave hours from-" Derek didn’t listen to the rest of Jackson’s words.

Derek opened the back door and helped Stiles in. "Change of plans. Just do it." 

Stiles was being silent and complacent which scared Derek more than anything.

The wind was blowing the surrounding trees, the rain was light but the wind slashed at his face. Driving would be a challenge.  
He hopped in the front, hoping that Isaac and Jackson could drive their car at the same time he and Boyd drove theirs, then separate. So anyone following wouldn't know which vehicle Stiles was in.

Derek was tuned into Stiles’ breathing. Every heartbeat. 

And that's when it dawned on him.

Panic attack.

How had he not put it together sooner?

 

Stiles’ breathing was getting heavier. He pulled at his tie, trying to loosen it. Trying to get more air, though they both knew the problem did not lie with his clothing.

Stiles fidgeted with his coat, that had been tossed in the back seat. "Did anyone see?"  
"No," then, Derek added, "You did well."  
Stiles huffed but said nothing else.  
"What can I do for you?"  
Stiles was bent over in the seat, head between his knees. "Just keep driving. I need to- I'll be fine. Just get back to the hotel."

The sound of rain beating down onto the Mercedes almost drowned out the sound of Stiles' struggled breath. Almost.

 

The drive back to the hotel from the venue was about twenty minutes away, and that was going thirty over the speed limit- though, when he was driving with Stiles in the backseat, who was mid-panic attack, frozen in that limbo of ‘it’s hard to breathe’ and extreme dissociation, the drive seemed so much longer.

 

Derek parked and jogged around the side of the car to help Stiles out.  
This time Stiles was not receptive to touch. He jerked his arm away and climbed out of the car, walking ahead of him, breathing uneven. 

 

When they got into the room, Stiles was ripping his tie off. Then his jacket. He'd left his coat in the back of the Mercedes. He tossed them carelessly into a pile on the floor.

 

"What do you need right now?" Derek asked.   
Though there was no reply.

Stiles’ eyes were wide, pupils pin point. He was looking for something, or maybe just thought he was looking for something. Derek grabbed his bicep and pulled him to down to the leather couch and then stood in front of him and kneeled, to properly look at him.

"Stiles, look at me. You did a good job; you held out for so long. And no one saw you."   
Stiles wasn't listening. Couldn't listen.  
There was deafening feedback in his earpiece. He ripped it out, flinging it to the floor.  
"What medicine was Deaton talking about? Is there something you need to take?"  
Stiles shook his head hurriedly. "I'm fine."  
He was trembling. So was his heartbeat. "You're not 'fine'. What do you need right now?"

Stiles’ hands moved to cover his ears. 

Derek put a hand on Stiles’ thigh and his other on Stiles’ shoulder and squeezed. "Stiles. Stiles, look at me." 

His lips were blue, Derek guessed from the lack of oxygen. He took Stiles' hands away from his ears. Derek squeezed them and said, "Come on. Let's breathe together, OK?" He looked up at him expectantly, keeping the steady pressure.  
Stiles' eye connected with his and he nodded. His whole body was trembling. He was trying, Derek could sense it. Felt it in the way he was trying to stay tethered to the moment. To not lose contact with reality.  
Stiles' fingers were pale and thin. They were freezing and blue-tinged which…wasn’t normal, even for a panic attack.  
"Squeeze as hard as you can," Derek said, rubbing his thumb over the back of the Stiles’ hand, trying to be cognizant of the burns under the bandages. 

Stiles' pulse was slowing. Drawing more oxygen into his lungs.

"Good. Keep going," Derek said in a tone he hoped conveyed more encouragement than demand.

Stiles did that humorous half-laugh, with a self-deprecating and ashamed smile. But he was breathing.

 

Panic attacks didn't look the same for everyone. Derek had seen all types, it came with the territory. Chances were, if someone needed Derek's services, there was a lot to be anxious about. There were unpredictable bouts of rage or irritability, sensory overload, and a hypersensitivity to disarray. Fast talking, stuttering, stumbling over words, not talking at all, and staring into space.  
Derek should have seen it coming. Stiles constantly exuded anxiety. He could smell his anxiousness. He should've known where there was anxiety, there was also the potential for panic attacks. It was another oversight. 

 

Stiles was sitting on the couch, legs folded under him.

Derek handed him a bottle of water, along with Ibuprofen. Pain leeching had the potential to make him a bit loopy, which sometimes wasn’t a good thing after a panic attack. Sometimes it worked like a benzodiazepine, sometimes it worked like a shot of adrenaline. He wouldn’t take the chance. "How often do you get panic attacks?"  
Stiles said a low ‘thank you’ and took the pills. "I sleep on a bed of anxiety tipped nails." At Derek’s look of dismay, Stiles gestured to himself. “I’m just a really nervous, uncomfortable person.”

He stood up with the glass and left the bottle of pills on the couch. Derek stepped in front of him.  
“Think it’s a good idea to stand?”  
Stiles stared at him blankly and Derek moved out of his way.  
He walked to the bed, draining the glass as he did, and set it on the nightstand, before picking up his work phone and planting himself on the edge of the bed.

Derek was combing the patterned carpet for his ear piece as he said: "That might've been helpful information before we went into a high-stress situation."  
Stiles was quiet, then, "My life is a high stress situation. 

Fair point.

Derek found his piece and put it back into his ear.

Stiles rubbed his eyes. “And I thought you wolves were good at detecting this kind of thing."  
Derek crossed his arms, leaning against the back of the leather couch, which faced Stiles’ bed.  
“Usually. But it gets confusing sometimes.”  
“Really.”  
“Yes. Especially when your appearance doesn’t always match your smell. Or when there is a lot to be anxious or stressed about. Or if everyone surrounding you is stressed too.”  
“And that contributes to messing with your keen werewolf senses?” Stiles said, tone full of sarcasm and deprecation.

He tried not to get defensive. Because Stiles was right. He should have been able to sense it coming, hours in advance. He would’ve been able to, a year ago.  
And he and Stiles both knew it.

Derek didn’t have the chance to defend himself because there was a knock at the door, which he was thankful for, because he didn’t have anything solid that Stiles, exhausted and coming down from a panic attack, wouldn’t be able to pick apart in seconds with his acerbic wit.

The comms were silent but he knew who was on the other side. Derek turned his head to the left and listened. 

The betas were waiting outside, nervously shuffling. 'Should we just go in?' 'I don't know, seems risky'.

Without moving from his spot, propped against the back of the couch, he spoke into his wrist when he said, “Come in.” And the proximity of all of their ear pieces created even more feedback and Derek found the ringing in his ear worth the chain of curses on the other side of the door, before the click of a keycard and there appeared the betas, all minus Boyd. 

It was Boyd, who over the ear piece said, “I’m in the van. The others are waiting for a debrief. Cameras are all in place, I’ve got your back.”

Derek uncrossed his arms and pushed off the couch with his heel, as he looked to the betas. “Stiles. Don’t-”  
“Do anything stupid?” Stiles finished, flashing a forced and tired smile. 

 

He left Stiles on the bed, while he went to talk to three members of his team in person, while Boyd would just have to listen over his ear piece. He led the three betas into 510, the on duty room.  
On second thought- "Jackson, go wait outside his door. Listen over the earwig."  
He nodded, that little muscle ticking in his jaw like he wanted to say something but decided against it.

When Jackson left, Erica leaned against the back of a table covered in tech and wires. "So what exactly happened?"

He made sure to speak into his wrist so Boyd and Jackson could understand the situation clearly. "Panic attack. We had to get out of there before anyone saw. It's under control for now."

Jackson, in Derek’s ear, said, “I especially enjoy it when we get little surprises like this over the course of the contract.”  
Erica crossed her arms. She didn’t comment on his sarcasm though her, and the rest of them, were in agreeance that ‘surprises’ like this, the avoidable kind, were the most frustrating (‘that’s what we get for working with the mob, they’re all tightlipped, even to the ones trying to protect their asses’). "Think he'll be OK...?" The meaning was heavy, despite the simple question.  
Derek didn’t have the confidence to answer her directly. "We'll be here to make sure of it. So go on with your regular duties."

They nodded and spread out to leave.

 

Derek relieved Jackson and vaguely thought about what to do for food for Stiles. But after a panic attack, did anyone really have an appetite? He got the key card to work on the first try and opened the door, sliding the card back in his pocket. “Are you hungry-” 

But Stiles wasn’t on the bed.

There was a moment of panic when he stepped into the room and Stiles wasn't on the bed or sitting at the circular table.   
Derek’s eyes flew to the balcony and his heart calmed when he saw Stiles there, holding a cigarette. 

 

Before Stiles jumped off the balcony, because he was a stupid teenager who was hurting, Derek collected himself.  
It was going to be a long night.

 

Derek slid the door open and took a step out.

The rain had stopped, and the black sky momentarily cleared. It was a rapid moving storm and the stars would be swept under the blanket in less than an hour.

Derek stepped fully onto the balcony, sliding the door shut behind him, joining Stiles in front of the railing. “You got all the way out here and Jackson didn’t come in?” Derek mused out loud, an undercurrent of hot annoyance in his voice. And not necessarily directed at Stiles.  
Stiles shrugged. “If he was outside my door, he wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing.” He was looking up, into the night sky. “Probably texting someone- he’s on his phone a lot for a bodyguard.”

Derek gripped the railing and breathed through his nose. He was going to have to talk to Jackson about Lydia. Again.

Stiles looked tired more than anything. And the beaten nature of his face didn’t help.

The temperature dropped another two degrees. Derek took a breath in and looked up at the sky, before letting go of the railing and backing up, under the awning of the balcony. “Back up. It’s going to start raining again.”  
Stiles raised an eyebrow but pushed off the balcony and stood next to Derek, watching the sky. They waited about twenty seconds before the rain started falling. 

“It won’t last long, it’ll keep coming in bursts,” Derek said, watching the water drip off the awning and create a wall of water. He lifted his wrist to his mouth. “Jackson.” He waited for a confirmation before continuing, Stiles was watching him. “Now would be a good time to go on patrol. I’m thinking the main focus should be outside the parking structure and parking lot.” Silence, and before any kind of argument, he said: “And put away your fucking phone. Lydia can wait.” More silence, then another confirmation. Derek dropped his hand.

Stiles turned back to watch the rain with a small smile on his face.

It lasted another couple of minutes. They stood there, side by side, watching the rain in silence. When it stopped, Stiles stepped forward again and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. He removed one, as well as a lighter from inside the pack. 

Derek said nothing, just stepped forward alongside him. 

The silence wouldn’t last long. 

Stiles’ heart hammered rapidly in his chest and he, as Derek had learned, did not like silence. It was only the exhaustion and weird head space the panic attack had put him in that had allowed the silence to continue for as long as it had.   
It didn’t bother Derek. But the way Stiles was at railing, fidgeting with his single before lighting it, it clearly bothered him. 

Stiles talked to fill silence, and Derek was willing to take advantage of that. He’d figured it out, after that first night when Stiles had kept his cards to his chest. It was possible to get him to talk. No question game or banter, just silence. And a person being able to listen, without judgement.  
And Derek wasn’t blessed in social graces, but silence, he could do.

Derek was watching Stiles uninhibited. 

He side-eyed him and flicked ash over the railing. "If you're going to tell me some shit about how these will kill me, sorry to tell you but my dad has you beat by about three years." 

"Actually, I wasn’t.” That was a lie, Derek had had a reprimand on his tongue, but he was flexible; this required a different plan of attack. “I was going to ask for one.”

It gave him an ‘in’ with Stiles. And gave him something to do.

Stiles raised an eyebrow, probably at the absurdity of a werewolf smoking mundane cigarettes, but said nothing. He held his own cigarette between his lips while he slipped another from the pack. He passed Derek the lighter and cigarette, hand shaking slightly.

Derek pressed the button and the flame was out of control, at least two inches high, for half a second, before going back to a normal size.

Stiles watched and after a beat said, "What happens when you buy cheap lighters, I guess.”  
Derek squinted his eyes but said nothing, just lit his own cigarette.

The rush of nicotine was warm on his first inhale. Werewolf healing made it impossible for him to get addicted or make his body break down. Which was nice, for the rare occasions when he smoked.  
He passed the lighter back and Stiles slid it and the pack into his back pocket.

Stiles blew a smoke ring into the air.

He inhaled slowly, getting used to the feeling of smoke in his lungs again. It’d been years since he last smoked, when he was in the throes of rebellious youth, sneaking a cigarette behind the bleachers with other mutties from his school.

Stiles could never keep himself still, Derek thought, as he tapped against the railing. Whether it be shaking his leg or tapping his fingers or biting his lips, and Derek had become accustomed to it. His clientele usually had a robot-like handle on their fidgeting so it was jarring to have Stiles be so actively buzzing.

Stiles craned his neck up, taking in the expanse of the starry night, from the holes in the clouds. “That’s something I still remember from Beacon Hills. There were so many stars, unlike here. Or back in Manhattan, I guess.”  
The reserve had beautiful, clear nights. Just the stars and the trees against the black sky. “That’s one positive,” Derek said, not meaning to sound cynical, but failing. Even though he meant it; a night in the reserve meant getting lost in a sea of lights.

Stiles must’ve been used to Derek’s brusque nature because he didn’t comment on his tone. “It’s nice getting away from the city, on the mainland. I just miss the stars.”

It had stopped raining for the moment. The only way to distinguish the storm clouds from the black night sky were the patches of space with no stars.   
It’d be raining again, very soon.

“Were there a lot of stars in Mexico?” Stiles asked.  
Derek hummed by way of answer. The stars had been beautiful, from the mountains. He looked up at the stars and felt the phantom sensation of wind in his fur, staring up at the sky through a wolf’s eyes.

 

It was like Stiles was bleeding out. He stood there, hurting inside. Only the hurt was pouring out. He was spilling, almost. Spilling himself.

 

“That's Orion." Stiles pointed with his cigarette to the night sky. "Artemis fell in love with him." 

Derek made a questioning noise, too wrapped up in the otherworldly expression on Stiles' face to form words. It truly looked like he didn't belong there on Earth with him, in that moment. Grief had only served to make him look even more ethereal, blue eyes shining like frost on a window. 

"She was the goddess of the moon. She fell in love with him and stopped shining. So Apollo, the god of music and a bunch of other crap, tricked her into killing him. She felt bad, which she should have, and placed him among the stars."  
Derek inhaled on his cigarette. When he blew out, he asked, "Did that really happen?"

"Who the fuck knows? I really hope not; Greek mythology has some of the most messed up stories." He snubbed his cigarette on the metal edge of the railing and threw the bud over the edge, into the darkness below. He leaned his elbows on the railing and stared up at the sky.   
Stiles was in a pensive silence for a bit before asking, "Is Deaton paying you to spy on me and give him reports?"

Derek did the same with his cigarette. He shouldn’t have been surprised. "You knew?"  
Stiles exhaled, and rested his chin on his folded arms, staring forward, eyes lost in the sky. "I do now."  
Derek nodded. "I walked into that."  
Stiles smiled without humor and gave a small shrug. "It was a shot in the dark but something he would totally do." He looked over the railing. "So what do you say? In your reports?"  
"'Report'. I've only given him one." Though Derek was supposed to write another, that night.  
Stiles bit his lip. "What'd it say?"  
"It’s your report, you should know what it says."  
He rolled his eyes at the non-answer. "Probably that I’m a pain in the ass and he didn’t tell you how difficult this was going to be.”  
Derek stared into the night. "That's actually… pretty accurate."  
Stiles shrugged in that, 'I try', kind of way. "Hey, I warned you, when we first met.” He stood up straighter, keeping one elbow on the railing to stare at Derek. “And isn't this some kind of privacy issue? Sharing my info."  
Derek was amused that Stiles thought he was entitled to privacy. You didn’t get privacy when you had five bodyguards and an overbearing godfather. "He's your guardian. And he can't be here all the time to keep an eye on you."  
Stiles turned back to face the sky. "Still." He leaned on the railing. "So you know that part in Star Wars with Boba Fett and the Sarlacc pit?"  
"Yes," Derek said cautiously.  
"That's my current mood."  
"So you’re saying you want to…?"  
"I'm saying that if you grew your bag lady nails and ripped out my throat, I wouldn't be too upset."  
Was casual suicidal ideation a thing among teenagers? Or was that just a Stiles thing? (or should he be worried? He was terrible with teenagers). "Sorry. But I think killing the asset is the opposite of what I'm supposed to do."  
Stiles rubbed his eyes. "Too bad." He picked at the edge of the bandage on his hand. He held up his hand. “This is a real bitch.”  
“It’s a shining endorsement of your safety habits.”

There was a sting to the air. A bite that made his eyes burn. He inhaled it, eyes following the lines of Stiles’ body. 

"You're in pain." Maybe from the burn.  
"Wait-" Stiles tried.  
He took Stiles' hand, despite the protest, ready to leech the pain away.  
There were no black veins. Not even a headache, from the pain meds he’d taken earlier. No -something having to do with that power-

Stiles pulled his arm back. "It's emotional pain.” He adjusted his sleeve, rolled at the elbow, nervously. “Not something you can leech away, unfortunately."

Derek didn't know how to proceed. Physical pain was easy for him. Emotional was on a whole other level.

“You're supposed to channel your emotions into revenge, you know. That's what my dad did. But, I don't know if I can even…”  
That's what criminals did. Their subordinate got killed, they hunted down and killed the one that did it.   
But Stiles didn’t know who was pulling the strings. And it wasn’t some subordinate.  
It was his father. 

Derek needed him to keep talking. “Do you miss her?” He didn’t elaborate.   
Stiles knew who he was talking about without it. His mother. “Do you miss them?” He asked to Derek. And immediately regretted it, by the way his eyes scrunched up. “Sorry, I’m not really good at answering questions that make me uncomfortable. Answering questions with questions or innuendos is kind of… all I know how to do now.”  
The obvious answer was ‘I’ve noticed’ but it didn’t seem appropriate. And sometimes the best response was no response at all. The silence spoke for him.

Stiles shrugged. He wasn’t looking at Derek. “I don’t know. It’s like burning your tongue. And then for days afterward, all the food you eat has less flavor and your tongue sits in your mouth differently and you become more aware of this foreign feeling. Like an alien dampening of that one sense that you’re never consciously aware of otherwise. It’s only when that one sense is taken away for a while that it starts to draw your focus to it: this strange, almost-numbness. Only…”  
Only this wasn’t just a couple of days. There was no healing from this. From his mother or father.

Nothing would ever taste the same. Stiles would never get his sense of taste back, at least, not like he had before.

When you loved someone and they died, did they take your heart with them? Do you spend the rest of your life with a hole inside of you? Something that couldn’t be filled?

After Derek’s family died, he knew something was missing. That hole that was inside him. He didn’t think it could grow any bigger, that emptiness. But now he knew better.

Stiles was the same.

“I know what you mean.”  
An asinine olive branch, extended to a kid whose world was getting set on fire. 

"Is this where we bond over our dead families? Because that seems unhealthy,” Stiles said.

Or maybe the fire had been raging since Stiles was a kid.

Deaton was pack emissary. Stiles’ mom and Talia hung out. Hale fire. Hale Security packing up permanently to New York. Stiles’ mother’s murder. John packing it up to New York. Tantum getting the betas papers. Laura’s death. John’s death.  
That was their timeline. Their terrible fates, twisted together.

“Did you kill her? That exhunter?” Stiles asked, an edge in his voice.  
“Yes,” was all Derek answered.  
Stiles tightly nodded.  
He knew what thoughts Stiles was going through but had no way to stop them.

 

“It's like I've had three months to turn over the idea of him being gone. OK- maybe one and a half-ish. Because for a while I thought he'd pull through. Hell, even on the last day there was still that hope. But every day passed and he'd just lie there and all the doctors kept telling me the same thing: he’s not waking up. And I- I knew he wouldn't wake up. It was this defining moment. It was just 'he's gone. I know he is'. So I had a chance to, well I can’t say get 'used' to him being gone, because I'll never be used to saying he's gone. But- my dad didn't die four days ago.” Stiles grit his teeth. “He died three months ago when some bastard shot him. It only took this long for his body to get the message."

Three months. Of knowing and preparing for John never waking up. But still that bit of hope that never went away, up until the very last second.

“I didn’t mind the pain, the waiting…” 

It was the hope that killed him.

“I felt like crying, during the funeral. During the eulogy. But nothing came out. It was just sort of a sad sickness, sick sad, when you can’t feel any worse. I think you know it. I think everyone does, now and then. But I think I’ve known it often, too often.” He clicked his tongue. "Don't get me wrong- when it happened, I was crying. Seriously, I was a mess. Am a mess." He said it like his grief was not something to be ashamed of, despite the fact that he had to treat it like that for the entire day.

Maybe Stiles was saying it so unabashedly because he knew that Derek knew what it was like.

Derek had locked himself in his new room in New York for a week after it'd happened. And after Laura, it was rage. Pure rage. He'd put a hole in about everywhere wall; brick, cement or otherwise, before he'd finally went to Mexico two days after becoming alpha. Which was where Stiles and Derek were different. He let the anger out, uncontrollable rage on whatever he could destroy. Yelling, hatred, pure and raw-   
But Stiles was different. He held it in; showing it to no one but himself. He let other things out; the bare minimum to let everyone know he had emotions. But that was it. Only the necessities. But everyone knew he wasn't OK. Who would be, after becoming an orphan and inheriting an empire of crime?

"After my mom died, I didn't think anything could be more painful. And after my dad laid in a coma for three months, I know that's not true."

Derek burned with the need to ask. Ask about his deceased mother and what'd it been like to be kidnapped and tortured for three days straight. What it was like growing up in a crime syndicate- surrounded by criminals and mutants for most of his life.

He wanted to know everything. So badly to know if they were the same. If even though some of their tragedies were the same, did they experience them differently?   
All of the things Derek’s mother warned him about, about that dark side of the world, Stiles had seen. What was it like?

It surprised him how connected he felt in that moment. His wolf napping contentedly in a corner, breathing soft. And Stiles was there and he understood. Stiles knew about death and loneliness- that kid got it.

He burned with the desire of a kindred spirit but said nothing. But he asked nothing, waiting for the truth to come out on Stiles’ terms.   
It was not his place.

“Now I'm just rambling and I don't know why I'm even telling you this-"  
"Stiles, it's fine."  
He looked over at Derek. His eyes were tired. "Is listening to my whining part of the job?"  
"Yes. And I don't mind.” He’d turned it over in his head. But John, the John he’d met, had remained the same. He’d just changed professions. “People always remember the legend, not the man. And your father was both. And both deserve to be remembered. The human traits, as well, because there's always a man behind the legend."

His eyes were lighter than their normal amber. Like raw honey.

Derek had a theory. About Stiles’ eye color and the correlation between his mood. His eyes were the majority of the time a soft whiskey, an amber that must’ve been Stiles’ actual eye color, like Derek’s natural green eyes versus his alpha red.   
But when it became too much- too much sadness or stress or anxiety, the color shifted to blue to grey, sometimes so light they looked like mirrors, like a snow white.   
Derek had even seen a vibrant green when Stiles had been wistfully stroking a plant in his office during their first meeting.

Thunder boomed. It shook the glass of the balcony doors.

Maybe Jackson’s prediction on him being a sprite was true. Or maybe he was some kind of faerie that for some reason lacked an aura, being a fourth or even fifth generation could do that, right? Though, unless Deaton was lying about him being an unlisted A Class, that couldn’t be true; faerie were Class C. Then again, if he was a second or third generation fae, then he could be Class A. But Derek doubted it- there was a kind of restrained magic that Stiles had, that a third generation could not possess.

 

“’I used to think death was the greatest sacrifice but I realize now that death is kind. The real test is in living with the glory and all of its consequences. The real test is not the battle but the aftermath’,” Stiles quoted. “That line- probably the only part I actually wanted in the eulogy and I didn’t even end up using it.”

Death was kind. But not when it happened to the wrong person.  
Survivor’s guilt.

There were sirens in the distance. Couldn’t escape them, even on the mainland. His wolf was distracted by the stimulus, though Derek wanted his focus solely on Stiles. 

Stiles’ laugh was cold. “That wasn’t a funeral, that was a shit show.” He ran a hand through his hair. “He hated that kind of thing, even though he faced it everyday. Fucking swam in it.” He stared at the end of his cigarette, turning to ash.

Stiles was almost as good as Laura had been at reading his nonverbal cues. At Derek’s questioning silence, Stiles explained: “The fakeness. This artificial bullshit. I bet about 20% of the people there actually gave a shit about him. And an even smaller percentage actually knew him. I’m sure you’re used to that, but I’m not.”   
“You never really get ‘used’ to it.” The shallowness of the underworld knew no bounds.

Stiles nodded tightly and scrubbed a hand over his face. He stamped out the largely that’d gone mostly unsmoked. “I don’t know, but- it didn’t feel right. Funerals are supposed to be about honoring the dead, right? That wasn’t honoring him. That was a fucking zoo.”  
“What would you have done differently? To honor him?” Derek’s plan: keep him talking. As long as they were there on that balcony, chain smoking and talking about those no longer walking the earth, with the dull chatter of the betas in his ear, the world they were both in- the world swallowing them up, drowning them and what tomorrow held- was pushed into the back of their minds.

Stiles shook his head. It told Derek a lot. It spoke volumes. “Our relationship had never been simple, he was the head boss after all, but- as the head of the group now I’m just…”

John was someone people would die for. He was someone who made people trust him with their lives.  
Stiles was afraid he didn’t have what his father had. Had what it took to inspire that kind of trust and confidence in the syndicate.

“We called him Big Boss because he was literally able to win over thousands and make them break away and be completely loyal, even die for him. And Konstantin tries to call me Big Boss but I don’t think I have that, had what my father had. The ability to lead like he did.” He bit his lip again. He had to stop doing that, or the cut on his lip would get worse. “When does it stop hurting? To think about them? When can I close my eyes without this pain?”  
Derek stared out at bloated, grey clouds. “I’ll let you know when I find out.”

Stiles huffed, something like a laugh of disbelief and absurdity. “I wouldn’t have lied, for starters. If the funeral would’ve been up to me.” He sniffled once and pulled out another cigarette. “That’s the biggest thing. Took me a couple days to write that eulogy and I had Deaton look over it and every time I reread it and made changes, it was like I was writing about a different person. And that felt bad, lying about who he really was.”

The silence burned.  
“My dad was…”  
Was. It hung in the air.  
“My dad doesn’t need a speech. Because words can’t do him justice.” Stiles couldn’t explain the honor of the man who lived and breathed ware for everyone’s sake except his own.

The worst part was the holes death left. Carved into your life and heart and future. It didn’t let you say goodbye, so the words were always on the edge of your tongue.   
But you were left wanting to say them anyway. They were rendered meaningless if the person was gone already and couldn’t hear.

“I mean, what’s that speech supposed to accomplish anyway? It’s not like he can hear me say goodbye.”  
“Saying goodbye to the dead isn’t for their sake, it’s for the sake of the living,” Derek said.  
Stiles exhaled. “It’s pointless, is what it is.”  
“Maybe so.” Derek felt like he was talking to his fifteen year old self.

Stiles shook his head. “My dad wouldn’t have wanted some grandiose speech anyway. He wasn’t like that.”

“What would you have talked about?” Derek asked, turning to look at Stiles.  
It was an invitation; keep talking or not, either way, I’m here.

Stiles watched Derek with a raised eyebrow, before turning back to the stars. He must’ve known the game Derek was playing, but for some reason, contrary to what Derek knew about his personality thus far, knew and decided to play.

Stiles took a breath and rubbed the back of his neck with his unbandaged hand. “I don’t know. Something- something about the real him. Not the Big Boss or John the Undefeated.” Another not-quite laugh. “God, he hated that name.”

Derek nodded, Stiles was watching in his peripheral. Seeing if that invitation was still open.

It was.  
Derek waited.

There was a fragile game they played, with the ghosts of yesterday.

Stiles flicked ash over the railing. He exhaled, breath catching slightly. like ‘am I really doing this?’. "He had high cholesterol. My dad did, I mean." He took another drag. The tremor in his hand was getting worse. "I was always on him about eating healthy. Even though I know he was still eating like shit." He shook his head and swallowed around the lump in his throat. "He loved watching sports. It didn't matter what kind; just something about organized team sports made him happy. And he had this thing for classic American muscle cars. He was..." 

Derek couldn't see his face properly but he could imagine the expression. “He was what?” Derek asked, nondemanding and quiet. 

Stiles swallowed audibly and there was a ghost of a smile in his voice when he, to Derek’s relief, kept talking. "He was a huge teddy bear. Seriously. And he was afraid of mice, he'd do that thing where you stand up on a chair and freak out, you know? Until he’d call for me to come get rid of it.” Derek looked over as Stiles mimed the panic; hands clenched into fists, folded against his shoulders. He was smiling, and it made Derek’s expression soften. “That happened a lot, before we moved into the penthouse at Park Avenue, when we were living in shitty one bedroom in Midtown West.” 

Derek nodded again, waiting with bated breath for him to continue. His scent was blooming. It smelled like roses, like nostalgia. Nostalgia, coming from the Greek ‘Nostos’ meaning homecoming, and ‘Álgos’ meaning pain.

“Luckily, he was OK around bees, but I think that was because he’d never been stung.” Stiles put out the rest of his cigarette. He was fighting against smiling and crying.   
Derek wasn’t even looking at him, could smell it in the air around them. Roses and salt and the incoming rain. So far, Stiles’ smile was winning. It was a sad smile, but a smile nonetheless. Stiles was good at that; smiling behind his pain. He had to be.   
“You know those sad dog commercials? He'd tear up every time. Or, or all those Hallmark commercials during Mother’s day. And all those commercials that come out during the Olympics, he was a sucker for those too.” 

They were in a deadlock; Stiles’ emotions. His voice wavered and he was gripping the railing, while staring hard at the sky above them. The storm clouds were moving in again, blocking out the stars. “He was human. A kind human who had to start this life to help us. And then he died for me." Stiles absently smoothed his fingers over the bandages on his injured hand. “That’s what I’d say, if I was allowed to be honest.” 

There was a streak of lighting. It lit up the sky.

Derek was formulating a response. ‘Thank you for sharing’ seemed hollow. ‘I’m sorry you couldn’t be honest at your own father’s funeral’ felt even more so-

Until a shadow interrupted the flow of light from the balcony door and in tandem. Derek, in mild annoyance sensing who it was before turning around, and Stiles turned around to see Jackson standing in front of the balcony door.

Derek motioned for him to come outside. There was obviously some problem, even though Derek hadn’t heard anything over the earpiece. He didn't exactly want to deal with any more problems that night, but that was all in the job. Nothing was up to him.

Jackson, not looking at Derek’s eyes, said, "We're all set back up. Boyd's in the van, but he needs your eye with the security feed. Him and Erica aren't agreeing on the position of the cameras. He thinks they keep putting them in dead spots and that's why the feed keeps cutting off."  
Derek repressed a heavy sigh and instead nodded. "I'll go talk to them." Derek looked to Stiles, who then took another glance at the skyline, understanding the silence that followed. You can't be alone on the balcony: 1) there could be a sniper (‘then why are we out here anyway?’). 2) I don't trust you not to create some ladder out of sheets and towels and propel down.

Jackson retreated through the open door, followed by Stiles, then Derek. He slid the door closed behind him, flipped the lock, and drew the curtains. To Jackson, Derek said, "Get Isaac to stand outside the door. I want you to do a perimeter check." When Jackson left, he turned to Stiles and said, "Stay put."  
Stiles mock saluted him. "Yes, sir."  
He scowled. "I'll tie you down if you even think of ditching again." The tips of his eyes turned red as he realized the implication.  
Stiles plopped onto his bed. "That a promise?" He said suggestively, biting into the unintended innuendo like Derek knew he characteristically would

Derek just shook his head, not daring to say anything else for fear of any ensuing banter, which would undoubtedly keep going in the direction he didn’t want to take.

Isaac was already positioned there when Derek shut the door behind him.  
"If he goes anywhere, it's your neck," he warned.  
Isaac nodded, a hint of fear in the air. "Got it. He's not leaving this room." He nodded to himself. “He'll be safer than Flintstone vitamins in a bottle. ‘Keep twisting, junior. All you get is clicks’."

Derek nodded once and walked to the elevators, ready to plant himself between a couple's bickering. Because the placement of the cameras was not the problem; their strong wills were. 

 

Assessing Stiles, as Derek had done with clients in the past, was an impossibility. His training and experience hadn’t prepared him.  
Derek would make an assumption and then Stiles would do a 180. Derek couldn’t read him properly. He didn’t know how to handle him.

 

 

 

 

Stiles took out his lighter and cigarette pack from his back pocket and threw them in the vague direction of his open suitcase on the desk. He heard the swish which mean that he’d miraculously aimed correctly and flopped back onto the bed, knees bent on the edge.

 

Panic attacks always left him empty. Body and mind drained of everything.  
He turned onto his stomach. The whole damn day had been draining.

It was embarrassing, having Derek see him like that. At least he’d gotten Derek’s ‘nice cycle’ down. By the morning, they’d both pretend nothing happened. But, then again, Stiles knew that witnessing Derek’s control problems was probably a big hit to the alpha’s ego. Or how they’d talked as he’d patched Stiles up- that raw openness Derek had showed was something like a miracle, and Stiles didn’t believe in miracles. So they were one to one when it came to incidences that they wouldn’t confront, or so Stiles hoped, barring the breaking of Derek’s ‘cycle’.

Derek did have his moments of not being a dick. Being nice was probably his equivalent to kryptonite, besides wolfsbane, and could only do it in short bursts or it’d suck the life out of him. 

He’d never known an alpha werewolf to be capable of such- kindness. The Alphas and Satomi were Stiles frame of reference. Them and the passing pack, Stiles had only seen the cruelty they were capable of. Though, it looked like Derek was capable of plenty. He’d seen what Derek had made of Violet and Garett. And that hotel room had been absolutely destroyed, and if Stiles had kept pushing, his guts would’ve been added to the destruction. 

Stiles had been terrified when Derek had turned around, all wolfed out with red eyes and claws and teeth. But he had no sense of self preservation and loved to push. And he had really wanted his phone and he’d had a hangover. Admittedly, he’d been a dick. What’d he’d said, though it was the truth, was like, maximum tool. But Stiles, upon waking up and ruminating on their situation, was not about to spend six months tiptoeing around a dysfunctional wolf pack. Someone had needed to say it, address the metaphorical elephant in the room, or the literal broken-anchored alpha.

Stiles had to admit to himself that making Derek’s job harder was fulfilling some kind of need Stiles had, like that morning with the suit. Harassing Derek distracted him. The way Derek’s tanned skin, from his months spent under the sun in Mexico no doubt, would tinge the slightest pink.

Derek was a strange creature. Stiles still didn’t have a complete grasp on him.   
He faked being a layman, was quiet but obviously always thinking, planning, watching-   
Had been hurt so much, lost so much. He was strong. But something about that talk the first night showed Stiles that there was something under that growly wolf’s exterior. A rich inner life that Stiles wanted to take apart and learn, like the complications on the inside of a pocketwatch. 

Derek might’ve been emotionally constipated, that much was clear, but he’d shown real vulnerability to Stiles. And Stiles knew why- as a way to relate. Relate to Stiles’ pain. Gain common ground. Maybe even save Stiles.  
But there was no saving Stiles. He was beyond it. The cards said so, fate said so.

Derek taking that cigarette and talking to him had meant a lot to Stiles. He was a d-bag half the time, but when it counted, Derek had his moments. He was so unlike any bodyguard he’d ever had, even Altair, who’d had a brief stint, months ago.

Stiles was glad that Jackson had interrupted, stopping Stiles from hearing Derek’s response. He’d felt so exposed. Talking at someone was easier than an actual conversation.  
But it seemed Derek was a master manipulator and was using all the tools (Stiles’ ADHD and rambley, no filter nature and Derek’s easy silence) against Stiles to get him to talk.   
Stiles had to watch himself, it was too easy to give things away around Derek.

 

There was that hollow place in his chest and it ached, demanding the attention he didn’t want to pay it. It wanted him to scream and cry and fall apart.

It was like his brain turned to a channel that he didn't have- there was only static. Grey noise that buzzed and tingled but did little else.

He wanted to be comfortably numb. That way, he wouldn’t have to feel the sting of his dad’s death. His mom’s death had become such a dull thrum in the background of his life, he was used to it.   
The numbness came in waves.   
That whole thing about how the people who say ‘I’d rather feel pain than nothing at all’ were fucking aliens because this shit hurt. And kept hurting.

He was struck with the words of Joseph Campbell. "Suddenly you're ripped into being alive. And life is pain, and life is suffering, and life is horror, but my god you're alive and it's spectacular."   
Fuck. That.

He didn’t want the memories or gazing across wasted years. No more silent tears. 

 

When he was younger, his father took care of him every single day. And when he died, Stiles had been the one to take care of him.  
He’d stared into the grave, whiskey bottle in his hand. But he hadn’t been able to take care of him, not really. He didn’t have a wake. Didn’t go to the morgue or the funeral home.  
He vowed to make up for it.  
I couldn’t take care of you, but I can take care of what you built.

 

The guy from the Weed Den had been a nice distraction. And now, more than anything, that’s what he needed. A distraction. Though if Derek wanted to be his distraction he would definitely not say no. The opposite of no.

Stiles wanted to hit up his friends, then remembered they hadn’t gotten hotels and were all driving back tonight. They were going to be so pissed that he’d left before them, without saying anything.   
He slid his phone out of his pocket and held it over his face. Already loaded with texts and calls and voicemails. He clicked ‘Do Not Disturb’ because he couldn’t deal with their concern, not tonight. Especially Scott’s. 

 

The simplest thing could trigger it, trigger the reminder of his father.   
Stiles would probably never watch baseball again or listen to the ‘80s best hair metal hits, or eat chili dogs ever again, without being reminded of his dad. And he could handle that; being reminded.   
What he couldn’t handle were the random bouts of crying or crushing silence. And in two weeks, he’d have to sit where his dad sat. Be in his dad’s office (my office now) and do what he did. 

When he’d met Derek and the team, that had been Stiles’ first time back at the office. And he’d been able to handle it; Konstantin and Deaton had been there and then Derek and his surprising amount of personality, for a bodyguard, had been enough to distract him.   
Because he’d been sitting at his father’s desk, touching the marks on the edge from where Stiles had cut into it with his knife to see if it would leave a mark, it did, or the marks from his dad’s writing, ingrained into the wood because he pressed too hard with his pen.   
Stiles had stuck Power Ranger stickers under that desk when he was younger- those were still there. His dad pretended not to know, but he knew. Or the literal knife slots in the wood, from when his father wanted to be dramatic and stabbed his own knife into the wood. Or the compartment where he’d keep his spare gun, in a drawn. Under that, his ‘secret’ stash of Twizzlers that Stiles would steal (his dad knew though, his dad always knew).

He hadn’t cried, not then. The crying had come later.

For three months, it’d been agonizing to wait-  
To wait.

I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I’m sorry that I survived.   
If he could go back in time, his father never would have died.   
What good was power if you couldn’t protect the ones you loved?

Wishing you were somehow here again. Sometimes it seemed if I just dream, somehow you would be here. Wishing I could hear your voice again, knowing that I never would. 

It was Sassoon who’d said, ‘Well, how are things in Heaven? I wish you’d say, because I’d like to know that you’re all right. Tell me, have you found everlasting day, or been sucked into everlasting night?’ but Stiles didn’t know if there was a Heaven to pray to. Or the worse alternative, and if there really was, then would his father-  
No. Not going to think about that.

The pain he felt not was the happiness he’d had before.  
That was the deal. That was life.

A tear slid from his eye. Stiles wiped it away.

Nope.   
I’m not doing this.  
Go back to being numb.

He’d had random bouts of crying, bouts of sleepwalking. And panic attacks. But those didn’t hold a candle to the nightmares. He’d found it was better to avoid sleep altogether.  
But he could handle it by himself. He’d been doing that for months anyway.

In the end, you were always alone with your actions.

God -fuck- he missed him, missed him so much. None of this was right. He was going to have to outlive him at some point, but not like this- not this soon. The phantom space beside him felt so barren, so empty.  
All of his grief screamed the same thing. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. This can’t be how things turn out. But the world just laughed in his face and said, ‘but this is how it is’. 

His mother’s death hadn’t been- easier.  
Not by a long shot.   
But the grief and pain were different.

“Do you remember anything? From when she was killed?” Derek had asked him.  
Stiles had just shook his head. “No. I just remember waking up in the hospital. I was fine- it was just a precaution. But I didn’t remember what happened. And my dad was just crying.”

He’d had his dad, when his mom was gone. They’d had each other. He’d had Scott. He’d had a stable ground to stand on, with them. At least for a little while, until they moved and everything got fucked.  
He hadn’t had to watch his mom die. He’d woken up and she was gone. And he’d been a kid then, and memories were so tied to emotions that some of that pain had been lost to time. The pain was different.

He missed his mom, but it’d gotten so normal that is was like having fingernails. But with missing his dad-   
It was like never having fingernails and then all of a sudden one day you did and they felt strange and foreign and you kept scratching yourself by accident and you didn’t know how to manage them, trim them, keep them under control, so you just kept cutting your skin open on them and then you figured out, you learned and-

I hate when I can’t hold in my loneliness. What do normal people do when they get this sad? Reach out to loved ones?   
Mom? Dead. Dad? Don’t think about it. Deaton? He already had enough to worry about. And Altair and Konstantin were only loyal to Stiles to a fault: anything he’d tell them, they’d relay to Deaton.   
Scott understood but Stiles couldn’t- he was supposed to be pushing his friends away to protect them. And he’d never do that to his other friends- unleash all of this onto them.   
And Derek…? No. Never. Even if it was his job to look after Stiles’ physical and mental wellbeing, Stiles couldn’t tell him everything, explain, and scream and cry. He could give him bits, but that was it.   
Anything else would be giving too much away.

If he were to tell Derek, Stiles felt like he’d understand. Because Derek’s family had been dead a very long time, but Laura had not. Derek would understand the sentiment   
So why didn’t he just talk to him?  
Because I’m a coward. And I don’t want to bring this up to another person, even if they would understand.  
It was the same reason he hadn’t even really talked to Scott about it. Scott’s mom, Melissa, died when Scott was two, so he didn’t remember her, or much at all, from that time. Scott would try to understand. But he couldn’t, not like Derek could. 

There was a rhyme him and Scott made up, for the security guards protecting Stiles throughout his time in the syndicate. Born to fight. Trained to kill. Ready to die. But never will. Even though the last part was only true about 60% of the time. And Stiles hoped against all hope that Derek and the betas fell into that 60%. He didn’t need anyone else dying because of him.

Stiles sat up and threw off his shoes. He slipped off the holster and threw that too. He looked around to see where his jacket and tie had landed when he’d come into the room with Derek. His shoes had joined the pile, sitting there like little landmines.   
Part of him knew this would irritate Derek and the thought made Stiles almost smile. Almost.

He ran out of energy to finesse his way out of his waist coat, so he settled with flopping back against the bed and laying there as he undid the first two buttons of his black button down. He dropped his hand back to his side and absently smoothed his fingers over the rough hotel comforter.

He and his father had fought a week before Stiles’ abduction. And he’d had it on replay for months, ever since he’d woken up in the hospital and his father hadn’t. 

Stiles had wanted to leave. Take a gap year before school, maybe. Leave. By himself. No security detail, just backpacking through Europe or something other teenagers did. Normal ones.  
“No, I won’t let you. You know the risks. You know what’s coming in a year.”  
“Let me? It’s not your decision!”  
“My child, my decision!”  
“I’m almost an adult-”  
“No, you’re a teenager.”

The tolling bells, hauntingly slow, as they’d passed through the cold and sculpted stone of the cemetery- it was all so wrong. His dad didn’t deserve those companions- he’d been warm. And gentle. The statuette angels watching over him, worn and decaying from the elements, were unfeeling and numb to the person he’d been.  
He was once a friend and father, before Stiles’ world shattered. 

Stiles had spent too many years fighting back tears for his mother. And now that his father was gone- Did he have another lifetime, mourning them both?  
Why couldn’t the past just die? 

Teach how me to live.   
He needed the strength to at least try.  
Dad. Please. Help me say goodbye.

Stiles lifted his head up to take off the necklace under his shirt. He held it up, staring at the two rings on the chain. With one bandaged hand, he grabbed the rings. Overcome with everything.

Vengeance and blood hammered in his heart, death in his hand.   
He wished he could have some kind of great Shakespearian revenge but-  
But.

Anger was a secondary emotion. Which was why vigilantes never felt completely better after revenge. The guys are dead- the objects of your anger are gone- but once the anger is gone, you're left with the real stuff. The real feelings.

There was nothing to go back to and worse to look forward to.

If his dad hadn't been shot, he'd be able to let it go. Kidnap and torture were grounds for some hating grudges but it's that, on top of taking his dad. His last family.  
He wanted to be angry but-- who could he be angry with? The men who did it, obviously, but he didn't even know who they were. So that was pretty fucking pointless anyway.  
And in this business, it was never hit men calling the shots. Random thugs were hired. Assassins were given assignments.   
The men who tortured Stiles and killed John were dead; but their bosses were still alive. The men who ordered the hit were still out there, enjoying life, while his dad was in the ground. It wasn't fair for Stiles to be left feeling this way while both of his parents' murders were free.   
Sure, the one who actually killed his dad was dead. But why only bring the gun to justice when it's the shooter's fault? You punished the bat, and whoever swung it. 

Knowing that didn't mean Stiles wanted the guys to live- on the contrary. He wanted them to die. Slowly, painfully.  
But the problem remained: who the fuck were they?  
And what would he do when he found them? 

Did he want to deal the killing blow? Would he be the one to pull the trigger? Or do to them what they did to his dad- and order someone else to do it? Make it quick?   
Or make them suffer.

He knew people who could prolong it. Altair and Konstantin could. Weeks of torture. Would three months be possible? To make them feel the ice cold feeling with every breath; wondering if that would be the day of death? Make them feel what it was like to constantly be in pain, physical and emotional.

 

He wouldn’t be the one to crumble his father’s empire.  
He’d grow stronger.  
His enemies wouldn’t succeed in what they failed to do the first time.  
They could throw him to the wolves. And tomorrow he’d come back leader of the pack.  
Beat him black and blue, it didn’t matter.   
Every wound shaped him. Every scar built his throne.

He would leave them choking on every word. He’d rebuild all that was broken.

He stood up and headed for the bathroom. 

 

As he washed his hands, he looked at his face, all the paleness and dark circles and bruises. He stared into the mirror and touched the bruised skin. His eyes shifted from grey to black. He flinched back as the sounds of the storm reared its head and rang throughout the hotel.

Stiles exited the bathroom and picked up his suit jacket off the floor, thinking about how anal Derek was and how seeing it on the floor drove him crazy and he was about to put it on the back of the leather couch but stopped. Because, then again, annoying Derek was fun. Stiles clutched the material for a moment before searching the pockets. He pulled out Kira’s gift as the rain came pouring down.

He dropped his jacket to the floor and turned to face the kitchenette. He flicked the plastic baggie between his index finger and middle finger, faced with a decision.

 

The rain beat overhead and lightning flashed through the curtains. It would be winter soon. And winter was Stiles’ second favorite season, because winter was silent. It was the very absence of sound. It was sucked out of the air, creating such a vast silence even your voice was quiet. It had something to do with air pressure and thickly packed snow acting as a sound insulator, and animals hibernating. No birds in the sky, no bugs in the air.  
Every sound muffled under a thick blanket.   
And Stiles, approaching the kitchenette and attached minibar, as the patter of rain and thunder boomed overhead, craved that. He wanted to be caught up in winter. Wanted the sound to be gone. 

The noise of the storm faded away as he ran the tap and opened the bag.

He downed the pills.

 

It was like he'd just stepped outside after a blizzard. It was heavy and suffocating, but at least it was silent.

 

 

 

 

"He's a kitsune. There's even thunder. Right now!" Boyd said, looking out of the concrete entrance of the parking garage.  
"Bet." Erica had her arms crossed. "He's a witch. They can control weather too."

Derek glared between the betas’ backs. Both completely unaware of his presence. He exhaled in frustration, gaining their attention.

They at least had the professional composure not to flinch when he gave a loud huff. They turned in perfect synchronization. 

Erica, with the professional decency to try and lie, said, "Oh. We- we knew you were there."  
Derek raised an eyebrow. Really now? "You have a bet going on to see what Stiles is." He’d known, but it was times like this that he played dumb.  
Quickly, to pull the others down with her, Erica said, "Yes. But- it's not just us. Jackson and Isaac are in too."  
Derek crossed his arms, staring hard. OK, I’ll play ball. "And what exactly are you betting on?"  
"I think he's a witch, Jackson thinks sprite, Boyd and Isaac think kitsune." She was side eyeing Boyd in judgement.  
"The winner gets to pick the food when it's our turn and they don't have to go pick it up,” Boyd said.   
“And when the safe house gets picked, they’re taken out of the routine cleaning rotation,” Erica added.  
Derek stared at the two. Some would call it scowling but he went with staring. "Don't let him find out or you'll never have a winner for your bet." 

Erica stared back at him. “You know, you could help us here. You must be getting some clues with your alpha-aura powers, right? A kid like him can’t have control over it yet-”  
“He doesn’t have one,” he said, not mentioning the fact that even if Stiles did have an aura, Derek wasn’t in a position where he could just see it on command.  
“Well, I guess you are new to using-” Erica started.  
“It’s not just me.”  
“Huh,” was all she said, probably not believing him.

 

Boyd was their main tech guy but Erica had the stubbornness and strong personality to make that not matter.

Derek climbed into the van and sat in Boyd’s chair, while the two of them stood on either side, hovering over his shoulders and pointing at the screen.  
They had four cameras in various spots, as well as the two on each side of the van, which were working fine. Camera 2 and 4, which were outside Stiles’ door and at the stairwell three doors away from their groupings of rooms, were both static.  
“The positioning isn’t the problem. Those are the new cameras and the cords are more sensitive. Go back and make sure they’re not bent.”  
He could’ve had Isaac do it, he was right there, by the cameras. But Erica and Boyd needed a walk.  
“Roger,” Erica said, before the two of them climbed out.

 

Derek swiveled around when they left and rubbed his face with both hands.  
When he dropped his hands, the wolf was staring directly into Derek’s eyes with its own glowing red ones to get his attention.  
What?  
No answer. Just stared with glowing, red eyes. It put its paws on Derek’s thighs.  
Derek crossed his arms and then one leg over the other, forcing the wolf to put its paws to the floor. It huffed, throwing its large, black head to the doors.  
I can’t leave. Not until they come back.  
Another huff and low growl. It stalked back forward to nose at Derek’s elbow, huge body having no problem reaching Derek, especially because he was seated.  
“Derek? You there?” Came Boyd’s voice over the earpiece.  
Derek exhaled and turned back to the screen. He lifted his hand to his ear. “Yeah.” His wolf growled and faded away.  
There was a pause and a slight crackle. “You went silent on me, I was asking you if the feed looks clear now.”  
Derek looked to camera 2. Erica and Boyd were staring up at him. With Isaac just barely out of frame. Then, to 4, which was back on. “We’re clear. Come back.”

 

It took them three minutes for Derek to see them approaching on one of the van’s external cameras and by then, there was a lull in rainfall.  
As they climbed into the van, Erica said, “We passed Jackson and let me tell you, the dude is drenched.”  
“Lydia will probably say something about it when they Skype,” Boyd commented.  
Erica sniggered. “About him being wet already?”  
Derek stood, very deliberately not commenting on a packmate’s long distance sex life, and Boyd took his seat as Erica sat on the chair at the opposite side of the van.

The brief reprieve from the van did them some good. The day had been tense, for all of them.  
Boyd, sitting down and touching a screen and the control board, said, “For the record, I don’t think the adjustments you had us make are what fixed the problem. I think it’s because the rain just stopped again.”  
Derek ducked out of the van without agreeing, even though Boyd was probably right. Before he went, he said, "And for the record, I bet all of you are wrong."

 

Jackson swatted at the air as he passed Isaac to get to the main security room, coming from the opposite way of Derek, soaking wet from his patrol. But his shift just ended, anyway.   
"I swear, it's like every hotel we go to, there are bees. Seriously. They're everywhere," Jackson said offhandedly to Isaac.   
"At least it's not as bad as Tantum HQ. There must be a hive in the walls somewhere," Isaac said.

Jackson nodded tightly to Derek as they passed each other. "Fucking furry little demons," he muttered as he scanned the key, disappearing into the off duty room.

 

His wolf stalked beside Derek as he approached Isaac, it had been since he’d climbed out of the van.

Derek noted the music as he approached Stiles' room, mostly instrumental with EDM adjustments. He raised a brow as he looked at Isaac. 

Isaac, who’d been doing the patented squat that bodyguards had to master next to Stiles’ door, jumped up. "Don't worry. He’s just been moving around in there. I don't know what the music's for but he's definitely in there."  
Derek nodded. "Stay here while I go in. I’ll be in and out, then I’m going back out with Boyd and then sending Erica up to comb the floors and service entrances. There are a lot of people in the city, especially right now, that could be coming for him. More so than usual."  
Isaac nodded and stepped out of Derek's way.

Stiles was moving around. Something was off with his heart. Alternating between too fast and too slow with almost worrying undulations. 

Derek opened the door and closed it behind him as another song faded in.

That's when the smell of alcohol and stress hit him.

Stiles came out of the bathroom, all smiles and drunken bliss.   
Derek back tracked and opened the door, sticking his head out. "Hey, Isaac, see if Erica and Boyd need help. I have a-" Stiles drunkenly sang behind him. "-a situation to deal with."  
Isaac arched an eyebrow and asked, "OK...? What kind of 'situation'?"

Stiles dropped something, most likely his phone, and he cursed loudly.   
Isaac craned his head to see into the room. Derek turned to look with him. 

Stiles was sloppily trying to plug his charger into the wall by the nightstand, narrowly avoiding face planting on the floor.

"Ohhh." Isaac nodded slowly. 

Derek put his back to Stiles. “So that’s the change of plans. You’re going on patrol.”  
Isaac peered over Derek’s shoulder again before mock-saluting him. "Have fun with that."

Stiles, done fiddling with the charger, called over Derek’s shoulder to Isaac “Don’t leave me alone with him, he’s got a murder-y face.”

Isaac blinked once and Derek could see that his face was about a second away from breaking into a smarmy grin, so before that could happen, he shut the door in his face.

Derek took a centering breath before turning to deal with Stiles. “That’s just my face, Stiles.” He could hear Isaac’s laugh from behind the door.

It must’ve been a music video being played, just with no visuals. There were odd periods of silence and then a woman speaking French and the sounds of thunder.

Isaac really needed to work on not being so hyper focused on if the client was moving or not and divide his attention to what the client was doing.

Derek looked around the room, tuning out the music. Stiles' jacket was on the ground in front of the kitchenette, parallel with the back of the leather couch. He snatched it up and dug in the pockets.  
"Looking for something?" Stiles asked, now camping by the speaker on the desk. The music stopped and then continued.

He looked pitiful from the pallor of his skin to the bruises on his face to his disheveled clothing, even his smell. Drowning in the salt of unshed tears.

Was this Konstantin’s fall?

Derek put Stiles’ jacket back down on the floor, to be dealt with later. He looked to the kitchenette and the most empty mini-bar. "Where did you put it? Whatever Kira gave you when you hugged at the funeral?"  
Stiles shuffled to stand next to the bed. "I put it in my mouth and swallowed it, like a normal person does when given drugs."  
"A 'normal' person doesn't do drugs." Derek took in the state of the room. "Stiles, what was it? What did you take?"  
Stiles looked at the bottle in his hand. "Something to make me feel better."

He hadn’t eaten anything since a powerbar that morning. Drinking on an empty stomach- great.

 

“Turn that off,” Derek said, frustration mounting. 

Derek turned the volume down all the way after Stiles’ noncompliant shrug, because he wasn’t sure where the power button was. And breaking it in half wasn’t the most mature thing to do. He turned back to Stiles.

Stiles pulled out his personal phone and turned the volume back up, though it was marginally quieter. “Let Steve Jobs DJ my mood from beyond the grave.”

A woman talked. Then singing. Stiles whispered the words lowly: “There is a fire inside of this heart and a riot about to explode into flames-”

“You don’t think much of me, do you?”  
Derek was not about to have that conversation with a blitzed seventeen year old. “Stiles-”  
“I don’t mind. Not really. I am…Professionally irritating.”

 

This kind of drinking was different from at the Den. 

This was sad, lonely, escapism drinking. Something Derek couldn’t just denounce as ‘rebellious teenager wants to have a good time’. Now it was ‘sad orphan teenager wants to numb the pain and escape from his reality’.  
Or maybe it was the same as days before, and Derek was just realizing.

Alcohol abuse was prevalent among the mob, after all. Derek had been trained to handle it. But he didn’t know the protocol for the current situation.

Derek was doing a good job of tuning out the music, even though it was quiet, it felt like it was deafening.

Stiles, for the most part, was trying to tune out Derek. “You’re killing my buzz.”  
“Oh, you are way passed ‘buzzed’.”

He sung brokenly along with the music. Voice trembling and unsure. Though he knew the lyrics.

“Do you really want me dead, or alive to torture for my sins?”

 

The sight was sad, honestly, from Derek’s perspective. The unsteady way Stiles’ words came out belayed the feelings he’d been holding back. He put on a happy face; he was anything but. 

 

Stiles shook the bottle in his fist. "Dude, this is like twenty dollars for this liiiiiittle bottle. But don't worry. Now that I own Tantum- or will I guess- I'm a millionaire."  
Then he looked at the label. "That's Nectar of the Moon"  
Stiles looked to bottle in his fist. "Yep. That lil bit of wolfsbane and vervain makes me all tingly."   
"It's toxic in large amounts for anyone who doesn't have a healing factor. That's why you're feeling 'tingly'."   
Stiles' accompanying smile was and uncaring. "Your point?" 

Derek clenched his jaw. He was still conscious and there weren't any black veins or dark blood coming out of him so maybe the miniscule bottle wasn't enough to make him too sick. No telling what the morning would hold.

The lights flickered again. The storm outside was once again raging, knocking around the power lines outside the hotel.

Derek stared at him, at a crossroads. Drinking and mixing drugs of dubious origin at best. Stiles didn't seem inches away from an OD. It was something in the way he smelled and his heartbeat, he smelled medicinal- the stinging scent of pills and alcohol. Heart beating slow but out of sync.

But he had to do something. "Give me the bottle." Derek held out his hand expectantly.

Stiles looked between the man and the half empty bottle. "I don't want to."

Derek took a step towards him. "Stiles," he growled, hand outstretched.

Stiles shuffled backwards and in one fluid motion, raised the bottle to his lips. Draining the last of the booze.

He considered what the consequences would be if he just punched Stiles unconscious so he couldn’t endanger himself more. "That's toxic." He could, possibly, force Stiles to induce puking. But that was an unpleasant procedure and what Stiles had taken wasn’t enough to kill him. But, then again, the body tries to take care of itself. Derek wouldn’t have to induce vomiting. “You’re going to get sick soon. I give it three hours, at most.”

Stiles ignored him. “I bet Erica would play with me.” He moved to walk past him, to the door.  
Derek grabbed the front of his shirt, moving him back. “No.”

Stiles weakly shoved himself backwards, out of Derek’s grasp, and continued his momentum, until he was at the bed again. He put his hand over the place Derek’s had just been, in the center of his chest. “You’re a real dick sometimes, you know?”  
“You wouldn’t be the first person to say that.”

Stiles pitched the bottle in his general direction. It would've shattered against the wall had Derek not caught it in one hand, moving faster than even his own mind could process. He kept eye contact with his client (he repeated that. Client client client- you can't strangle a client. No matter how infuriating they're being).   
"Mature." Derek set the bottle on top of the mini-fridge.  
"I try." Stiles said flippantly, turning away from Derek, using the logic of babies and drunks- ‘If I can’t see you, you’re not there’, ‘If I drink my problems away, they’re not there’.

Half of Stiles’ clothing, as well as his knife and holster, were in a pile on the floor.

Derek picked up his clothes, seeing expensive suit pieces treated like that was irking him. Also moving anything that Stiles could trip on when he inevitably had to get up and run to the bathroom to expel the literal dose of poison he’d ingested. Stiles’ jacket was now hung over the back of the desk chair. Business phone plugged into the wall, sitting on the nightstand. Stiles’ personal phone clutched in his unbandaged hand.  
He put Stiles’ shoes by the desk, out of the way, as well as his knife and holster.

He used cleaning as a distraction. Dealing with an intoxicated Stiles, as Derek had found out from that first night, was not the easiest thing in the world. Especially a Stiles that was so emotionally raw. He stalled, thinking of how to proceed.

 

Derek was irritated, to put it mildly. Partly at Stiles, because Derek thought they’d averted that night’s crisis and now the client goes and does something. And partly at himself, for letting himself believe Stiles wouldn’t do something stupid and reckless. Should he really have expected anything less? This was the same kid that snuck out to a drug house and was almost killed within hours as a consequence.

 

Stiles was drunkenly swaying, singing in that fluid, inebriated way. Like someone at a party, preoccupying themselves with alcohol and fun to forget their pain momentarily.

There was a shakiness in the air. Like the mild aftershocks of an earthquake. Or the booming movement after lightning struck.

Derek decided on a different approach. Stiles had already had a hangover from mixing drugs and alcohol two days ago. And it looked like the next morning would be the same. Derek could smell it on him- Stiles’ body was really going to feel like shit in the morning and Derek, undoubtedly, was going to have to deal with it (or have the betas deal with it for him).

Derek had to put an end to this. "You can't be doing this right now."  
His tone was amused. ‘Enlighten me’. "Well, why not?"

Dealing with drunk people- a commonplace. But an annoyance, all the same. “You need to be present right now. What if someone found the hotel? We'd have to use the exit strategy procedures I showed you-"  
"But that won't happen because you're an awesome bodyguard, right?"  
Derek caught the compliment for what it was; a derailment. He said, "If someone would find you here, it wouldn't be because of my skills as a bodyguard. And I couldn't afford to have you wasted while someone could be potentially laying siege here."  
"Well, I'm only...human. Wait. That saying really doesn't work for us, does it?"

And fuck this was a long song. Long periods of instruments and synth rock followed by a male’s voice, full of pain. Even worse when Stiles joined him. Their voices were so raw.

“Just- let me have tonight?" Stiles asked, voice breaking.

“These violent delights have violent ends. And in their triumph die, like fire and powder.”

His eyes were grey. Like steel or pavement in the rain. They weren't his eyes; they were cold.  
And what was Derek supposed to do? Even the big bad wolf had some semblance of morals. Though Stiles was pissing him off.

He'd made his decision, though. It was time for bed. To put Stiles down for the night and hopefully sleep off whatever he'd taken.

Stiles’ already sparse attention span was suffering greatly, though he stayed alert enough just in case Derek tried to rush forward and take his phone. Which he could do. But he’d prefer to keep this- amiable. Stiles, though he’d drank himself down to a four year old and was acting like it, he was grieving, And Derek understood grief.

But understanding only did so much after an intense day. Derek was feeling the exhaustion in his own limbs, from being tense all day. And his patience was dangerously close to dipping into none existence.

"You're going to sleep," Derek said evenly. “Or else.”  
“Hmm?” It sounded almost innocent.  
Almost.

And now a guy was speaking French.

Derek was really done with this grim backdrop. If Stiles wouldn’t hand him the phone or voluntarily cut the music-  
Derek walked over to the Bluetooth speaker on the desk and held it up. “Stiles.”

He was watching Derek, face cracking into a grin. “OK, there’s that. But consider this…” He pocketed his phone and clumsily walked forward with his arms out, ready to act as a buffer in case he fell, which was pretty likely, until his lower thighs touched the bed and climbed onto it.

Derek was about to unclench his body in relief until Stiles crawled forward on the bed and planted his feet into the mattress, stood up, and turned to face Derek.   
Derek, scowling hard, dropped the hand holding the speaker to his side. “What are you doing?”

The music continued. It was a piano intermission. Stiles was swaying along with it. "Dance with me." He held out a hand.

Derek looked up at him, expression deadly. Not that Stiles cared.

The music continued. Another man talked rhythmically. Stiles mouthed along. “The quiet silence defines our misery. The riot inside keeps trying to visit me.” 

Derek glared at the Bluetooth speaker in his hand and then back at Stiles, really trying to consider the consequences of his actions. Deaton probably wouldn’t be too upset and it wasn’t like it couldn’t be replaced, but it would be a matter of principle with Stiles and inebriated Stiles didn’t seem to care too much for Derek’s threat, but sober Stiles would be the real annoyance.

The thunder outside joined in tandem with the thunder playing over the speaker.

Derek set the speak back onto the desk and walked to the bed. "Get down."

Stiles' smile grew with the challenge. Make me.

Something like a growl rumbled in Derek’s chest. He stood in front of Stiles with his arms crossed, looking up at him. He was at crotch level, and if he was a lesser man, he would've just punched forward, which would definitely have had Stiles getting down. But that was taking it too far, even if Stiles was pissing him off. “I asked you politely. And I only do that once.”

Stiles bounced slightly, head cocking to the side. This time saying aloud, "Make me."  
Derek uncrossed his arms. "If you insist" 

He grabbed Stiles' ankle and pulled, making him fall ass-first onto the bed.  
Stiles yelped. "Dude!"  
Deep breath in. Steady breath out. "Call me 'dude' one more time."  
Without hesitation, Stiles, now looking up at Derek, said, "Dude."   
Derek grabbed his ankle again and dragged him to the floor. He hit the ground with a thud.

Stiles’ head and back were at a right angle with the ground and bed. "Owww." He rolled onto his side and looked up at Derek, eyebrows drawn and mouth wide open in disbelief. "You're such an asshole."

Derek knelt in front of him. "I can't help it. You frustrate me." He wrestled Stiles’ phone from his back pocket. Stiles let him, just laid on his side groaning, and tapped at the screen. The music cut as the woman was back, this time quoting The Raven. 

"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming-”

Derek twisted around to set Stiles’ phone on the nightstand and when he turned back, Stiles had shifted. Apparently, it had proved to take more effort glaring up at Derek and keeping his head off the ground than Stiles was willing to expend, because he had instead laid his head down, cheek first on the scratchy, patterned carpet. "That was suuuuuper professional." He clenched his eyes shut. "And that was a lot of movement. If I puke, it's your fault."

Derek put a hand on his shoulder. He really should get him out of the waist coat and shirt- "That'd actually be your fault for drinking in the first place." But Derek was realistic and knew Stiles was very close to passing out.  
"I'm telling Deaton you're abusing me," he mumbled against the floor, opening one eye to glare at Derek in his peripheral.

Derek squeezed Stiles’ arm condescendingly. "He'd thank me. Now, are you going to get on the bed? Or are you going to spend the night on a hotel carpet?”  
Stiles closed his eye but pinned under him was moving up to scratch his neck. “The bed.” His voice was quiet.

Derek nodded slightly and adjusted his position to get both hands under Stiles’ armpits to hoist him up. He propped him against the side of the bed, because his heart beat sped up exponentially and getting puked on would not have been a good end to the night. 

He’d experienced that- many times. He was doomed to never escape drunken idiots, even when he changed from humans to mutants. 

Stiles’ eyes were still closed as Derek crouched in front of him, looking around for a trashcan. He twisted to look behind him. There was one under the desk. He could grab it, because there was no way he was even going to attempt to get Stiles to the bathroom- he wasn’t heavy, but he would’ve been dead weight, or just as good as, and he was lanky. Plan made, Derek turned back to Stiles and-

And his blue eyes, so blue they looked fake, were open and narrowed.

Derek caught Stiles’ fist before it could make contact with his cheek.  
Which Stiles had calculated because then he was jumping up onto his feet, his free hand using the side of the bed as leverage, and tumbling into Derek, causing the man to lose his balance and fall backwards. But he hadn't let go of Stiles' fist so they fell together. Derek’s elbow caught the nightstand and it shook. A glass fell off one side, shattering.

"Let go-" He was struggling. Then he raised his other fist and Derek, sure he’d be punched in the face, grabbed that fist too. 

Stiles was straddling Derek, trying to get his hand back. Breathing heavily, his heartbeat jumping from ‘on the verge of sleep’ to ‘I’m going to fight my bodyguard’.

Until Stiles' eyes closed and he fell forward. His body went slack and his head fell on Derek's shoulder. 

Derek gave himself a handful of seconds to compose himself, before he did something regrettable, like choke out the client. But that place in his mind which held rage was unreachable. He wasn’t angry. Not even a little bit. He stared at the ceiling, feeling a weird sense of comfort. 

Those couple seconds were long enough. Derek slid his hands from Stiles’ fists, to get a firm grip on both forearms so he could start the process of getting Stiles on the bed, because now that there was shattered glass only feet from them, he couldn’t just toss Stiles off and leave him to sleep on the floor- not with the restless nature of Stiles’ sleep.   
His heartbeat was rapidly calming down.

"I really would've punched you if I didn't feel like passing out right now," he slurred against Derek's shoulder. He struggled upwards, up until his elbows were planted on either side of Derek’s chest. But his hands gripped the fabric on Derek’s shoulders.  
He didn’t give up his hold on Stiles’ forearms, so Stiles’ elbows were planted between Derek’s chest and Derek’s arms. “I’m sure you would have.” Derek was trying to find the best way to get Stiles up, because he’d be passing out very soon.  
Stiles was looking him in the eyes. His breath smelled like alcohol and something sweet, his breath hot against Derek’s face. 

Derek was holding onto Stiles’ forearms, trying to be mindful of the bandages. If Stiles was in pain, he didn’t let on, and Derek wasn’t about to take the potentially existent pain, on the grounds that Stiles would definitely pass out if he did it).

And he was transfixed, the rapidity with which Stiles’ eyes were changing from frost to grey to settling on dark whiskey, before one eye changed grey, and the other followed, lagging by a couple of seconds. His eye lashes were so long. The whites of his eyes red with unshed tears and exhaustion. A blush high up on his usually pale cheek bones from the alcohol and his emotional  
exertion. 

"Hey, you know, you're really pretty," Stiles drawled.

His hands clutched onto the black fabric of Derek’s suit jacket as his body moved. Like he was trying to get up or roll over but the last couple minutes had been so disorienting and he had no strength. Derek kept a firm grip on each of Stiles’ forearms so he didn’t pitch forward, onto Derek’s face. "Flattery is a cheap distraction.”

His eyes flashed back to an even softer amber and settled. It gave Derek a sense of satisfaction for his eyes to be back.   
Stiles smiled and his eyes moved from Derek’s eyes to his lips. His hands were sliding further up Derek’s shoulders, bunching and pulling the fabric as he inched closer. 

And Derek didn't stop him. Push him away or verbally protest. He was frozen in Stiles’ eyes.  
His wolf was whining with need. Derek’s grip tightened, with something like anticipation.  
Stiles' eyes closed as he lessened the gap, his grip tightened on Derek’s jacket. 

Before his lips could connect, Stiles veered to the left. Planting the side of his head against Derek's scruffy cheek. His fingers relaxed and he let go of Derek’s jacket. The steady, deep breathing pattern signaling he had fallen asleep. 

Derek released Stiles’ forearms and put a hand on his boney back. His other hand scrubbed over his eyes as he was surrounded by Stiles’ scent and heartbeat.  
He rolled Stiles onto his back, away from the nightstand and shattered glass, and his head lolled to the side but he didn’t wake up.

Derek sat up and gave himself a moment to compose himself as he scowled a hole into the carpet because the surprise erection he'd gotten was so unexpected he didn't trust his legs not to give out.

Getting Stiles back into bed was like wrestling a handsy octopus. His weight- which honestly, wasn't much, something Derek might have to fix because low weight meant low energy, it was probably from his poor eating habits- was not the problem. He was grabby and slim and Derek feared one of his team walking in to him half-cuddling Stiles.   
He got Stiles sitting up by grabbing under his arm pits, then hoisted him up, carrying him to bed. His head was limp on Derek's shoulder, legs swinging at Derek’s sides, one hand on Stiles’ back and the other under his ass. 

He deposited him on the bed and Stiles settled in. Derek moved the cover over him and Stiles nuzzled back into the pillow, eyes closed.

Stiles, fingers weakly clutching at the blankets, side of his face settling against the pillow, quietly said, “I didn’t- I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

Derek covered him with a blanket and bent down to pull it over his shoulders. Stiles gripped the blanket with his bandaged hand and nuzzled into the pillows.

He brushed his knuckles against Stiles' bruised cheek.


	4. Late September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And life goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, please remember to leave feedback.
> 
> I told you, comments feed my family.  
> And my family is starving.

 

When Derek entered Stiles’ hotel room, there were pillows on the ground, as well as the top cover of the bed. Stiles himself was in the middle, starfishing.

 

Derek walked to him, looked between him, the messy ground, and Stiles’ phone. Derek picked up the phone and Bluetooth speaker.

He scrolled through Stiles’ playlists, turned the speaker’s volume all the way up, and deposited it directly next to Stiles’ face, which was pressed into the mattress.

“TRYING TO TEAR ME APART. BREAKING ME DOWN TO THE BONE. SO LISTEN CLOSELY-”

Stiles shot straight up, panicked, heart beat hammering and grey eyes opening wide, before coming back to himself. Back to the aches in his body. The aches in his heart. He scrubbed a hand over his face, still wearing the same clothes from the funeral.

“THERE’S NO BLOOD INSIDE THIS BLEEDING HEART-”

 

Derek turned off the music. Stiles glared at him through tired eyes.

 

Was it cruel

Maybe.

Was it worth it?

Definitely.

 

“What time is it?” He slurred, sleep drunk.

“Ten in the morning.”

Stiles groaned.

 

Stiles had spent a chunk of the night passed out in front of the toilet.

 

Laura had always said drug abuse was a touchy topic, especially in mobs. Almost everyone was doing something. And it was common enough that no one questioned it. But it was dangerous. First, because drugs, alcohol included, were dangerous. For the body and the chance of OD or getting a bad batch.

And second, for the security side. Someone who had just done a rail of coke probably didn’t have being murdered or avoiding that murder on the forefront of their mind.

The bodyguard was then put in a precarious position.

But intervention was necessary for anything that put the client’s life at risk. Whether by the first or second danger or both. The tricky part was _when_ to intervene. And deciding when, was definitely a subjective decision.

 

Derek knew Stiles was using, and not just last night. But at the Den too. Was he just being a teenager or was there an underlying problem…?

Teenagers used because they were carefree. Stiles was anything but, though he played the part well.

For now, he’d wait and watch, before proceeding.

 

Stiles dragged himself into a shower, exchanging no words with Derek as he was waking up.

 

Derek took the time to clean up the shattered glass and move the trashcan back under the desk. Luckily, Stiles had made it to the bathroom when he had gotten sick.

 

Stiles ended up getting sick about two hours after Derek left him, first when he’d stood up and ran to the bathroom, then passed out hugging the toilet.

 

He looked miserable after exiting the shower, still pale with bruises and dark circles under his eyes, but better than he had the previous night.

 

He threw up again in the shower.

They were all long since desensitized to that sort of thing.

 

He dawned his red hoodie, hood up, with a pair of black joggers. He exuded grogginess and annoyance.

“Maybe necking a bottle of wolf vodka wasn’t a good idea?”

Stiles clenched his eyes shut. "Shhh. Turn off your mouth siren." He opened his eyes again. "So can you just forget...everything about last night?"

Derek didn’t know if it was cruelty or if he just wanted to see Stiles blush in embarrassment when he said: "Forget how you got drunk on werewolf booze, yelled at me, tried to fight me, and then tried to kiss me? Then passed out on me so I had to carry you back to bed?"

His pale skin flushed an uneven red. "Bruh. How about ‘all of the above’?"

 

Derek crossed his arms over his chest. He allowed himself a smirk. “So you remember last night?”

 

Derek’s own reaction must’ve been from Stiles’ hormonal, drunken arousal. And the full moon was coming up. He felt the pull of it stronger, now that he was alpha.

That’s what he told himself.

 

Stiles’ face scrunched up as he rubbed his temples. “I wish I didn’t. Listen, it’s not you. OK, maybe a little. You’re like, unfairly attractive and fuck- I mean… What I mean is that I get like that when I’m drunk. I get like that with everyone, not just you.”

 

That stuck with Derek.

People could take advantage of him. He didn’t allow himself to think if someone already had, especially with how much it seemed like Stiles drank.

 

Derek nodded, allowing the topic to drop. For now, anyway. "Some food will make you feel better. How about McDonald's? Some greasy, day old French fries and a burger with a stale bun and processed cheese, the kind that doesn't melt all the way and looks like wet plastic. Sound good?"

Stiles made a gagging noise, going even paler. He put a fist in front of his mouth. "I'm actually going to puke if you keep talking. And I will puke on you.”

 

Stiles sat on the edge of the bed. “Come on, like I bet you hit the werewolf sauce all the time when you’re not on the job.”

“No, I don’t ‘hit the werewolf sauce’.”

 

The lack of control wasn’t appealing to him, that vulnerability alcohol created.

Laura had been the opposite, especially when she was a teenager, drinking with her friends on the reserve.

He was something of a wine expert, thanks to Peter’s tastes for it, but beyond that, he didn’t indulge.

 

Stiles rubbed his head, drying hair sticking up in all directions. “I've been hungover for like two days straight yet I keep drinking.”

“I’m sorry you put you through this.”

 

“Coming in,” Erica said from behind the door, before the sound of a keycard sliding.

 

She held a red Gatorade in one hand and Cheetos in the other. “You’ve been complaining about craving these. Might help you with that hangover.”

His shoulders sagged in relief. “My savior.”

She shook her head, but there was a smile on her face as she passed Stiles the snacks. “Fucking idiot.”

He opened the Gatorade. “Yeah, I’m aware of that, thank you.”

 

 

They left Stiles with his food and phone.

Derek spoke with Deaton on the phone before hanging up and gathering the betas for a debrief.

 

"Get ready and pack up. We found a safe house."

"Thank fuck, I'm tired of the smell of hotels," Erica said.

 

"And good work yesterday."

He exited the room to inform Stiles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Erica turned to Boyd. "He seriously just gave us encouragement."

"You know what they say about puppy love changing people.”

Erica laughed and hit him on the shoulder. "He hears you say that and he might actually kill you."

 

 

 

Stiles had changed and eaten half the Cheetos. He was wearing a white t-shirt with black text that read ‘normal consciousness will be resumed’. His knife left a bulge at the end of his skinny jeans.

 

"It took some time to settle, but we found a suitable property," Derek told Stiles.

Stiles’ disappointment and skepticism was palpable, even without heightened senses. "How, exactly? The criteria was impossible."

 

"We found a spot, meeting almost all criteria, so Deaton bought out the surrounding buildings to make up for what the property lacked," Derek explained.

 

The safe house was in Flushing, Queens on Long Island. It would be a thirty minute commute if the traffic was light. Perfect for the office in Manhattan.

 

It was in a residential neighborhood full of shut-in retirees. When you needed to hide a tree, go to a forest. And sometimes when you needed to hide a mobster, you went to a middle class neighbourhood in suburbs of Queens. The surrounding houses had been bought out by untraceable means to Tantum, Deaton had assured. Duplexes, one run down apartment building, and a few houses.

 

The drive from the mainland would take a couple of hours.

Stiles slept most of the way, head against the window. Driving to Flushing, NY with a hungover minor that was set to take up head position of a crime syndicate was really not where Derek foresaw himself at this age- but life rarely went as planned.

 

He woke up briefly so declare, “I’ve decided something. You’re going to be my friend. Or at least be more civil with me.”

 

The mere exposure effect: the more familiar someone becomes, the more you like them. The more someone was exposed to a stimulus, the more familiar that stimulus was, and the more you liked it.

 

“I’m not here to be your friend.”

“We’ll see.” He closed his eyes again. “Just give it time, I grow on you.”

Isaac, who had tagged along in the Mercedes, said, “Yeah, like mold.”

 

 

There was a small, condemned apartment complex behind the house, separated by all alley. To the sides and to the front sat brick houses and duplexes. All empty.

The safe house itself was nondescript, but not in an unpleasant way. It was two stories. There was a large front porch, wooden and white, lined with green bushes. It was something Derek had seen countless times, a certain kind of east coast style. It looked somewhat out of place among the brick structures and dilapidated houses surrounding it, but not enough to draw attention.

The front yard had a singular Maple tree. There was no garage but there was a long, paved driveway beside the house. Which would suck but it was doable. The street was wide and had curb side parking.

 

Walking in, it smelled like wet paint and cleaning products and latex. New plastic and polished metal. He could also smell white sage, from whatever warding process Deaton had used.

There was a staircase to the left, and double doors to the right.

 

"That's an awkward place for a bedroom," Stiles said.

It was Erica who answered, "It was supposed to be an office but someone needs to be down here at all times."

Derek looked to the betas. "You're deciding between yourselves who gets it."

Immediately, Isaac and Jackson pointed at Erica and Boyd. "It's yours. It's all yours," Isaac said.

Erica crossed her arms, sashaying past them into the furnished room. "You know, a couple layers of wood and some walls aren't going to stop you from hearing us having sex.”

 

 

The floors were dark wood, the walls a light grey, with blue accenting on some of the furniture.

 

Deaton had already put in wards that required no upkeep. Just to keep out magically spying eyes.

Another room shared the same wall as the kitchen, which would be their main security hub.

 

"Weird set up. It goes from open to closed and there are a lot of doors."

"It's an old house."

 

On inspection of the inside, there had clearly been add-ons and multiple restorations and face lifts over the years.

 

“In Feudal Japan, lords purposely had homes with squeaky floors for defense against ninjas and  assassins, called them nightingale floors,” Stiles remarked.

 

They walked into the kitchen.

Stainless steel appliances, with tile, gave it a clean and sterile feeling. There was a bar and an island.

"Honestly kind of surprised," Stiles said, looking around.

"Why?" Erica asked.

"Because Deaton has a thing for kitschy. Especially in kitchens."

"You're lying," Jackson said, turning to him.

Stiles shook his head. "He doesn't look the type but he seriously loves it."

 

The kitchen shared an open concept with the living room and dining room, which was really just a space with a large, wooden table.

 

The living room had a 'fake' fireplace with a flat screen mounted above it. There was an entertainment center below, with a simple design and dark wood- speakers and wires and some kind of gaming system with black cabinets concealing controllers and games and DVDs, Derek assumed.

Deaton knew his godson well.

An 'L' shaped sectional of black leather was positioned in front of the fireplace, it's other arm to the sliding glass patio door. There were two armchairs and an end table across from that.

 

There was a sliding glass door, with mounted venetian blinds, to the backyard, including a patio with a fire pit and outdoor furniture.

 

The background had an eight foot privacy fence, an alley on the other side, parallel to the house. It was wooden and faded, but the fence’s gate, leading to the alley, was sturdy enough.

 

Deaton had emailed Derek with extremely detailed descriptions of the property. Floor plan designs and schematics for rooms. Derek and the team had it memorized in an hour.

Stairs, followed by a landing, two steps, another landing, then more steps to get to the second level. There was built in carpet, thankfully, because Deaton had forseen the clumsiness of his grandson.

Pointless to hire a security detail if the head boss tripped and broke his neck on the stairs.  

Derek could protect him from an assassin, but he couldn't protect him from his own clumsiness).

 

Stiles braced himself on the railing, panting slightly. "I'm out of shape."

Stiles versus the stairs.

A smile escaped before Derek could clamp it down.

 

The entrance to Jackson and Isaac’s room was to the immediate left, just past the stairs.

 

There was a sitting area in front of the last room, past Jackson and Isaac’s room. That’s where the double doors to the balcony were located.

 

"I bet like, all of this was from IKEA. Deaton fucking loves it. ‘Hemnes and Vejmon’,” he said in a high-imitating voice, while touching the end table, in the sitting area in front of the last bedroom.

 

The house couldn't exactly be described as modern or completely sterile. But Derek liked the clean, simple appearance. The color scheme.

Maybe too homey. Though, compared to the minimalistic and cold loft, everything would be too homey.

 

Stiles, apparently, wasn't of the same opinion.

"Stupid Deaton and his stupid need for 'order and an uncluttered, clean environment'. He told me he'd make it feel less like a prison and more like an actual home."

"I think this is pretty far from prison."

Stiles rolled his eyes, eyes on the grey walls of the hallway. "You know what I mean."

 

And Derek did. He'd been in the game long enough to know what it felt like to live somewhere without actually _living_ there. It was a nice house, but Stiles was haunted with why he had to stay there.

 

"Could be worse. You could jumping hotels for the next six months.”

Stiles snorted. "There's always that."

 

They walked into a large room with two twin beds pressed against the walls on either side of the mostly rectangular room (besides an angled wall, on the left, which shared the wall of the door). The beds were separated by a nightstand. There was a window behind it, as well as by the foot of the left twin bed. Along the angled wall was a desk, and perpendicular to that was a small standing dresser, the matching set on the right side of the door, in the corner.

“I haven’t slept in a twin since I was six,” Stiles said, bags in hands, looking around the room.

Perpendicular to the door, and just past the foot of the right twin bed was the door to the bathroom.

Derek set his bag on the bed furthest from the bathroom, on the same wall with a window overlooking the backyard.

Stiles was silent, then, "Dude, what are you doing?"

"Unpacking my bag," Derek answered, with his back to Stiles.

"No, I mean, what are you doing in here?” Stiles looked around, like it was just dawning on him. “And why are there two beds in here?"

Derek turned around to look at him. "It seems like every time you're left by yourself, things go badly. So I'll be sharing a room with you."

Stiles laughed. "You're joking, right?"

Derek just stared.

"Oh fuck, you're not joking."

"It's a security risk. You're a security risk. You don’t trust me, I don’t trust you. My presence will help to discourage you-” Derek wanted to say ‘from doing everything that I know you’re going to try and do over the next six months’ but Stiles took his pause to say: “From doing anything naughty? I think you underestimate how sneaky I am.”

Derek turned away from him, laying out his clothes to be put in the closet later. “You brought this on yourself.”

Stiles dropped his bags on the wooden floor. “While you may be correct, that’s still no reason for me to suffer.”

“Remember I told you the night you snuck out- you did anything else that puts your safety at risk, there would be consequences.”

Stiles sputtered. “You’re punishing yourself here.”

“This doesn’t bother me.” Derek pointedly unzipped his suitcase. “But I know it bothers you.”

Stiles hadn’t moved from his spot by the bathroom door. "Was this Deaton's idea?"

"No. It was mine. But he endorsed it and had the master bedroom furnished accordingly."

 

Stiles was so clearly an only child.

 

"And it's not that bad," Derek said, like he didn't know how 'bad' it actually was for someone of Stiles' age and personality type. "There's even an ensuite."

"Please- just stop talking."

 

The bathroom was large, with a porcelain bathtub across from a double vanity. A separate shower and water closet, as well as access to a sizeable walk-in closet that some homeowner over the years had added onto the house. Because priorities. But that, too, was massive- which was good. Considering Deaton had sent Stiles' 'boss' clothing over. And Derek's own suits.

 

"What if I need to change? And you're in there?"

"Knock? Be patient? If I'm in the shower, go for it?" Derek listed, unbothered. Calculatingly oblivious to Stiles' discomfort.

 

“How do this not bother you? How does one even train themselves not to be bothered by this?” Stiles was reaching that level of being so not OK with a situation that he was almost accepting it- like the stages of grief.

 

Derek had had sisters and a massive family so he was never alone. The Hale mansion had always been filled with kids. Kids sharing his room. And it had never bothered him. Wolves lived on top of each other, that's just how pack was.

Even now, with everyone, they were always together. On jobs they were sometimes joined at the hip.

Stiles was an only child, and from the sounds of it, had quite a lonely childhood, in regard to other children.

And he now was a teenage boy with certain inclinations for substances and behaviors.

 

Living with an older male was a death sentence.

 

All Derek responded with was, "I'm fine. Pack animal and bodyguard. I'm used to it. This is my job, remember?"

 

Stiles sat heavily on his bed, watching Derek unpack. He threw his hands up as he said, "Still. Isn't it weird? Wolves are territorial. And I'm not pack but I'll be all up in your living- and more importantly- sleeping space. You still have instincts, regardless of vocation."

 

For some reason, what Stiles said bugged Derek’s wolf. Really bugged. It stood, huffing in frustration. Derek didn't look too much into the following series of whines.

 

It was true; wolves were territorial.

Alphas being the most, betas less, omegas even less than that.

But it was different because they knew, and more importantly their wolves, knew that that wasn’t _their_ home. Just a temporary stop. Though the longer contracts were difficult, and by the end, Derek remembered Laura rallying against her werewolf instincts.

And Stiles was right, it mostly had to do with where they slept- _that_ was private. Wherever they laid their heads had to smell right. And that part never got better.

Which is why it surprised everyone, Derek included, when he’d opted into rooming with Stiles.

 

"It's fine," was all Derek could answer.

 

On inspection of the closet, it was revealed that half of it was already filled with suits and professional clothing for Stiles. Drawers with cufflinks, ties, belts, and pocket squares.

"Deaton took the liberty of stocking you up," Derek called from the closet.

"Yeah, he'd mentioned it. I'll make sure to thank him," Stiles said. And it didn't sound sarcastic.

Which was surprising. Nothing ever went that easily with Stiles.

 

Jackson peaked his head around the closet door. "Damn. Big closet. But at what cost?"

"My sanity," Derek said.

"My dignity. And privacy," Stiles said from his bed.

 

 

 

Stiles called Deaton later that day. To thank him.

But mostly to complain.

“First, thanks for the stuff. It's nice. I appreciate it. Second, Deaton, are you serious? Sharing a room with _him_? Why would you do this to me?”

 

 

 

Derek put a collapsible fire ladder under Stiles’ bed, where it would be easily accessible. Go bags went by the desk. He inspected the windows. The glass was thick and the sigils were carved into the wood.

 

Boyd and Jackson were handling scanning for bugs and wiretaps, which would be a weekly occurrence- even though there were spying wards. They might stop mages from listening in, but they did nothing against mundy tech.

Derek had his own failsafe, in case there was some reason attackers were able to bypass the motion detectors, cameras, and internal security system on the doors and windows.

He never fully turned the lock on anything.

Just a slight askew, not enough to keep the actual locking mechanism from doing its job.

The betas set up the cameras and motion sensors around the exits, windows, and along the lines of the property. As well as syncing the multiple alarms and security cams and motion sensors with their work phones, laptops, iPads- as well as the van while they sat and set up the security room. They’d set up alarms like a PA system throughout the house, one under the edge of the window sill between Derek and Stiles’ beds.

 

Boyd was in the main security room on the first floor, calibrating the sensors and the alarms throughout the house.

Derek was prepping the rest of the house. Hiding weapons, mainly. Duct taping guns and knife under furniture. The kitchen table, the sink. In the event of a breach. He adjusted the furniture, moving the couch further away from the patio doors.

Routine prep work.

 

Stiles had come downstairs to watch him.

“In this in case you get into some kind of Punisher-fight with an intruder?”

Derek understood the reference but for the sake of hearing Stiles’ disappointed sputter, pretended he didn’t.

And sputter Stiles did.

 

 

Routine created inflexibility, it lulled people into a false sense of security. As a counterpoint, they changed their shifts every so often randomly, as well as doing drills.

 

 

Stiles paid close attention as Derek walked him through their movements and plans, exit procedures and the like.

He had a suspiciously positive reception.

A suspicious willingness to listen.

 

Derek made it a point not to tell Stiles about the game they played with difficult clients. The game where their ‘drills’ took place at annoying and inconvenient times.

He waited, like Cthulhu dreaming in the dark R’lyeh, for Stiles to piss him off. That’s when the first drill would happen.

 

He had to make his own amusement somehow.

"The Wi-Fi here is surprisingly fast. That's like, the only thing I wanted,” Stiles commented.

"Wow. From Park Avenue, to only caring if the Wi-Fi is good. You've fallen a long way, haven't you?" Jackson said.

"Are you trying to get into a pissing contest on being a spoiled rich kid? Because, honey, despite me having more money, you win by a landslide."

Jackson retreated to treat the burns Stiles just inflicted.

 

The protocols for the team’s on duty schedule at the safe house was less intensive than at the hotels. Out of the five of them, one of the pack was always monitoring the security feed (whether that was in the van or the one set up in the security room).

One of them, which as often as possible was Derek, was in rough reaching distance of the asset. One of them was on patrol every hour. The other two would be 'off duty' - whether that be them sleeping, showering, eating, out on supply runs, cleaning, working out, or just relaxing.

 

Stiles stood at the sliding doors in the living room, staring past the patio, when Isaac and Jackson announced they were going grocery shopping to stock up.

“Need anything?”

"Can you add tuna to the list? The canned kind?"

"Yeah, how many cans do you want?"

Without hesitation Stiles replied, "Let's say twenty for now."

"Seriously?"

He shrugged, looking down to his phone with no further explanation.

 

 

Derek had sent Jackson and Isaac to pick up pizza, because none of them felt like cooking, despite going grocery shopping.

 

The pizza next to Stiles smelled like pineapple, jalapeno, bacon.

 

“I am greatly concerned with your diet. All you eat is pizza and coffee,” Boyd said, eyeing Stiles.

“I’m living the dream, aren’t I?”

“You’re killing your vital organs.”

Stiles shrugged. “I have a fast metabolism and running is hard.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I knew this place was too good to be true. I saw a mouse."

Stiles didn’t look up at Jackson but said, "This is New York. There’s one rat for every person, you know.”

"Well, that may be the case. But this is war." Jackson held up a package of mousetraps. "For all those cats in the neighborhood, they sure do jack shit."

 

Stiles was on his phone. Apparently, the drinking party after the funeral had gone well, according to Konstantin. Only a few brawls broke out and no one was hospitalized.

 

He’d turned his phone off ‘do not disturb’ and was immediately flooded with missed calls and texts. ‘I’m OK, just had to get out of there. Go wasted and now hungover’: copy and pasted to everyone.

 

“So, are the mice enough to set off your alarms?” Stiles asked, fishing for more information.

Derek, appearing from helping Boyd setting up the security room, answered him

“They’re very sensitive, Stiles.”

He said it like he was catching on to Stiles’ fishing.

Because he just had to catch onto everything.

 

Stiles made sure to pay close attention to the pack’s security walk.

Just in case he wanted to slip out again, of course. He had the Babylon candle but there were easier, less fatal ways to escape if the need arose.

 

“Wanna get me some beer?” Stiles asked Erica. Because it was worth a try.

Erica, forgetting herself a moment, or maybe she was just being her truest self said, “I’m not getting you shit, you underage fuck.”

“OK, first, rude. Second, you’re such a dick.”

Erica punched Isaac.

“Ow.” Isaac rubbed his arm. “So he’s an asshole to you and you hit me?”

“Well, I can’t hit him.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Stiles said. “Soon your verbal abuse will become physical-

Isaac swatted him. “Soon just became now.”

 

 

He was also doing his best to push the events of the previous night to the back of his mind.

Like straddling Derek and trying to kiss him.

He might have tried, he might have not. It wasn’t quite clear.

OK, it was. But he was going to shove that right in the ‘fuck it’ bucket and move on.

 

When he’d texted Kira his mortification, all she had to contribute was: _‘Wait wait wait, so you got sloppy- white girl waisted and tried to sleep with your bodyguard? Iconic.’_

 

 

Stiles had his phone pressed between ear and shoulder, talking to Scott, as he hung up the dreaded suits in his and Derek’s _shared_ closet. Scott was gushing about Allison, in between asking Stiles over and over again if he was OK.

“Yes, I’m fine. Now continue with your story.”

He pulled the Babylon candle from his suit case, about the deposit it in one of the built in wall drawers, before an idea struck him.

Stiles walked from the closet, to the shared nightstand in between the two win beds and set the candle there.

 

He had Derek pegged for a neat freak. And a control freak. It would drive him crazy.

 

“Stiles?” Scott asked.

“What?”

“I was asking you if I could come over and see the new place.”

Stiles put the phone in his hand and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Dude, you know I have Derek 'Creeper Wolf' Hale as a bodyguard-"

"I'm not being creepy; I'm just doing my job," Derek called, from across the hall in Jackson and Isaac’s room.

"-Stop listening to my conversations! You're not even in the same room," he shouted, holding the phone away from his mouth. "I'll call you later, Scott. I live in a house of wolf eavesdroppers."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Derek pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top as he prepared for bed. He was off night shift that first day, to be there, just in case Stiles tried anything.

 

Derek noticed the Babylon candle placed deliberately on the nightstand but said nothing, as it was Stiles’ way of getting a rise out of him.

 

Derek made sure his gun was under his pillow, holster abandoned where he’d laid out his clothes in the closet for the next day.

Stiles was in the bathroom, taking a shower, preparing for bed.

 

 

The moment Stiles’ hit head the pillow, Derek could feel his discomfort. His nerves. He turned over in his bed to face the wall.

Just his luck that Stiles was as restless in sleep as he was awake. Though, by judging by the pace of his heartbeat, he was far from being asleep.

 

 

"This is all your fault," Stiles finally said, glaring up at the same ceiling that Derek was glaring up at. He sat up, flipping the covers over himself.

"What are you doing?" Derek asked, trying to keep the hint of humor out of his voice.

Stiles stood, grabbing his phone and a book. "I can't sleep and I have work to do so I'm going to the living room. One of the others is out there." He grabbed his lap top from the desk and promptly left the room.

 

Derek leaned further back into his pillow, ready to have a good night's sleep now that Stiles' scent and heartbeat wasn't distracting him.

Derek woke after four hours of sleep. He squinted against the brightness of his phone screen; five in the morning.

 

Stiles was sprawled out on the couch when Derek moved to the living room. By the barely-steady beat of his heart, he had been asleep for maybe twenty minutes. Derek took a blanket from one of the armchairs and draped it over him, in the process, bumping the coffee table and making Stiles’ book tumble to the ground.

Stiles shot up, eyes wide open and panicked.

Derek froze.

But Stiles just groaned once, flopped over on his stomach, and pulled the blanket tighter around himself. “’Five more minutes,” he mumbled, half-asleep.

 

Derek bent down to pick up the copy of Johnny Got His Gun as Stiles’ heart beat evened out. A picture fell out.

Derek held the photo. It was John, and who he assumed was Claudia, on their wedding day. The sun shown behind them, trees were the backdrop. Her eyes were closed, half turned to John, beaming in a white dress. She looked so much like Stiles, same cupid’s bow and long eye lashes.

Derek stared at the picture a moment too long, before placing it back in the book and shutting it, feeling something akin to guilt at looking at such a private moment, like he was a voyeur to someone else’s grief.

 

Derek had no pictures.

_If you don’t think photos are important, wait until they’re all you have left_.

 

 

Stiles would be officially heading Tantum in a week. That meant seven days of keeping his distract from the storm that was to come.

 

 

Stiles was making some Slavic dish the next day. “It’s Pasztecik szczecinski,” he’d called it, which meant absolutely nothing to Derek.

 

He’d enlisted Erica’s help, who seemed to be there only for the promise of the food.

They all hated cooking, but as the smell of deep fried dough wafted through the house, the betas appeared one by one.

 

It was deep fried dough filled with various meats and vegetables.

 

“I taught myself to cook when I was nine.” He was chopping onions. “It was either that, or microwave Hot Pockets.”

 

Derek picked up on the connotation. That was when John and him moved to New York, after Claudia was killed. It must’ve been especially rough those first couple of years.

Stiles must’ve spent a lot of time alone.

 

“Hey- that’s pretty good,” Isaac said, stuffing another into his mouth.

 

Derek moved to help him clean up the dishes as the betas returned to their posts.

 

“Can you cook?” Stiles asked after the silence became too much for him.

“Simple dishes only.” Derek was trying a pot. “But Laura was worse.”

“She was a kitchen nightmare, you mean?”

H raised an eyebrow.

“You know? Gordon- never mind.”

 

Derek didn’t wear suits on his off-duty time. Which had apparently caught Stiles off guard the first time he’d seen him out of a suit.

“Didn’t have you pegged for a leather and Henley kind of guy.”

“What did you have me pegged for?”

He thought a moment. “Hmm. Croptops and cutoff shorts?”

Derek pretended to be offended.

 

 

 

Stiles was draped on the couch, tossing Skittles into this mouth without taking his eyes off his laptop screen.

He’d been up all night.

Derek put his ear buds in, on the way out to run. To Stiles, he said, “You better be in bed by the time I get back.”

Snorted laugh, then, “Oh yeah, definitely.”

 

 

There were no more visible bruises from Garrett and Violet’s attack. His hand was almost completely healed, lip no longer cut. Scratches gone from his face.

But the wounds he carried internally were far from healing.

Those might never fade.

 

 

Given time to watch Stiles, to further profile him, Derek came up with endless observations but no concrete conclusions.

 

Stiles was scattered: impulsive, always in a hurry, easy to anger, energic, passionate, short attention span. Shameless flirt, complete lack of filter. But for all of Stiles’ faked extroversion, there was a reticence.

 

Stiles was forgetful. As in, ‘leaving weird things in weird places’ forgetful. ‘Leaving a bowl of half-eaten mac and cheese in the laundry room’ forgetful.

 

He was a clumsy mess who tripped on flat ground and constantly dropped both of his phones.

 

He slept in short bursts, if he even slept at all, wherever he dropped. At the kitchen table, at their desk-

Derek worried about Stiles falling asleep in the shower.

And he was always startled when he woke up.

Derek often wondered what dreams laid coiled beneath his pillow.

 

He lacked true confidence, had a propensity to be self-destructive, and did not well with being confined. He was easily lure to drugs for an escape.

 

He left energy cans stacked everywhere like shrines to his unhealthy habits.

 

He left to do lists everywhere. Usually post it notes or whatever was next to him. Napkins, takeout menus. Derek even found writing on a box of Fruity Pebbles once. Sometimes they were in a code Derek couldn’t read. Stiles was probably doing it without thinking about it. He wrote in his copy of Unifying a World Apart all the time. 

 

Though, to be honest, Stiles was a better house mate than Derek thought he'd be.

He was relatively clean, especially considering he was a teenage boy, and he still bitched every time it was his turn to do the dishes- he was a complete contradiction.

Between his sleeping habits, his forgetfulness, whether that be to eat or leaving possessions behind, Stiles was still a brilliant mind who was always doing something.

 

But he was definitely interesting, between the weird sleeping habits. And his forgetfulness, which Derek attributed to his ADHD. His eating habits were questionable too. He wouldn't eat unless he was reminded, especially if he was working. Doubly so if he remembered his Adderall, which worked against his appetite. Causing many late nights excursions for food when it was, 'oh shit, I forgot to eat for an entire day'.

If Derek did that, he'd be out of his mind with hunger.

 

But he was preparing, and doing it well, for Tantum. Coordinating with Deaton, Konstantin, Altair, with the lawyers-

Stiles was good at what he did.

 

His messenger bag was a microcosm of Stiles’ life. His book, his laptop, to-do lists written on receipts in code, thumb drives, caffeine pills-

It was a disaster. But Stiles always found what he needed.

He was enveloped in chaos, and in it, he found a way to live.

 

Derek looked to the nightstand in their room. The Babylon candle, both of Stiles’ phones, the empty energy drink cans-

And Derek couldn’t help but wonder what Stiles was like before John’s death. Before he packed up his life in exchange for a new one. Well, not new, not even different.

Worse.

 

 

Stiles, to Derek’s surprise, was in bed by the time he got back. What wasn’t as surprising was what he was doing: working on his laptop.

But it wasn’t a battle Derek wanted to fight at the moment, so he dropped it as he went to take a shower.

 

"Why was there a mug in the shower?" Derek asked, walking out of the ensuite.

Stiles was lounging on his bed, laptop open with pen in mouth, and cocked his head. His expression turned to dawning realization. "I was wondering where my coffee went."

Derek looked into the cup. "There was an energy drink in here."

Stiles didn't look up at him but he raised his eyebrows, fingers typing at a dizzying pace. "Well, you've just created more questions."

 

That night, Stiles didn’t sleep, but Derek does.

Stiles was doing basically the same thing, numbers and articles on his laptop screen, A World Apart open next to him, headphones on but the music had stopped hours ago.

Derek was going for the approach one would use for a three year old- leave them alone, because eventually they will have to sleep.

 

 

"How is it that, in under ten years, your father became the biggest head in the syndicate? Also doubling the size and overall monetary gains for not only your group, but the other two, by a large margin? I know he had Deaton and old contacts but this is monumental. Bordering on impossible," Isaac asked one afternoon. Him and Derek were in the living room as Stiles worked on his laptop.

 

They’d all heard the rumors, bits and pieces of impossible legends. Isaac’s eyes were bright; maybe Stiles could enlighten them.

 

"There are three ways to become THE head.” He put a finger up for each. “Work your way up, be the appointed successor, or kill the previous head. My dad was a man of focus. And that focus was on changing-the-world-out-of-spite, bordering on revenge. He wanted justice. He'd do anything."

"So he killed the other head."

"Yeah. Donati."

"And the other heads just accepted that? Their boss was just killed and they have to follow the guy who did it?"

"That's how it works. At the time, it was Deucalion and Victoria Argent. But she ran off after my dad became the boss because she’d been stealing money from Donati but was found out shortly after he was killed. That brief period of chaos gave her a chance to escape. The Gerard took over. And in this business, you're never going to necessarily 'like' the boss. Just the way it is. But there's a code for a reason so they were content, I guess."

“Seems… I don’t know. That’s a weird way for the boss to be chosen.”

Stiles laughed. “We’re not the only ones who have an ‘out there’ kind of practice. The Taitung Syndicates, you heard of them?”

Isaac shook his head.

“Well, they used to be out there too. There was a Taiwanese Lantern Festival practice known as ‘bombarding Master Handan’. Master Handan is the God of Wealth, but the legend said that he was always cold. So people in the ritual would throw firecrackers at Master Handan to drive the immortal chill from his bones. The more firecrackers they set off, the greater their wealth would become. In the 70s and 80s, potential crime syndicate bosses would play the role of Handan. Which meant exposing your chest while people threw firecrackers at you. Whichever gang member could survive the onslaught the longest would become the next crime boss.”

“OK, that is out there.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow, like ‘ _see, that’s what I’m saying’._

 

"So, based on the confirmed contracts we have on your head, people are trying to kill you, because they want the head seat?"

"Some. Thing is, you can't send a hit man, if they’re going for the ‘kill the head’ method. You have to do it yourself. Hand to hand. No powers or weapons or supernatural juice. And most of the guys that want the seat are too chicken shit or decrepit to off me with their bare hands.”

He shrugged casually. “Some want to kill me just for fun, I guess. End the Stilinski line, because we've been a pain in the ass for a lot of people. And some are deluded enough to think anything good would be accomplished with my death.”

 

That’s why you had coordinated attacks, like Violet and Garrett. Or the attack that killed John.

 

"So who succeeds if you die.” After a glare from Derek, Isaac amended, “Hypothetically?"

"The heads would convene and decide. And if a head wasn’t chosen, the money from Tantum- and my entire group in general, not just the company itself- would be divided among the two groups. But, how things are, it would be Deaton. He’s taking over, after I turn eighteen.”

 

"Deucalion could definitely kill you, even though he wouldn’t become head,” Isaac said.

"Yeah, but it gets tricky between mutants. First, the whole killing thing is like this big ceremony, because there have to be witnesses, including the other heads and another party. Deucalion 'witnessed' with Victoria Argent and Deaton. And the combatants have to be at the same level. And no weapons. Deucalion and I going fist to fist with no powers/ supernatural enhancements would be impossible. Sure, he'd kill me. But it would mean nothing because of his wolf strength so that'd be cheating, so there'd have to be a council anyway."

"But he could kill you just for fun, still. Even though it wouldn’t be an ‘official boss killing’."

"That he could," Stiles said, in a tone that said he’d already considered that. “But then he’d have the issue of people from my group avenging my death. Then his throat would be fair game. There’d be an inter-syndicate war. And Gerard and Deucalion wouldn’t profit from that.”

 

Stiles’ death and what would be the subsequent collapse of his criminal empire would result in a power vacuum. Which would lead to a gang war; in syndicate fighting, as well as any other criminal organizations that would come to get in on the possible winnings.

A lot of people, on all sides would die.

It would be in the best interest of the entire syndicate not to have Stiles killed. But that didn’t mean he was ruling out the other heads saying ‘fuck it’ and killing him anyway, despite the consequences that would bring. Because there really was no honor amongst thieves.

“’When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die’,” Stiles said.

Erica laughed. “That’s tasteless.”

 

 

Derek was buttoning up his shirt when a glint on the nightstand caught his eye, by the dreaded Babylon candle. He stared at the rings, connected by a simple silver chain. They were bands, one gold and the other silver. The ones Stiles usually had around his neck. Hidden underneath his clothes.

But Derek had noticed the way he'd fiddle with them when he thought no one was paying attention. And that little metal clinging sound he'd tuned into when Stiles moved. Subtle enough that the betas probably couldn't hear it.

He'd figured they were John and Claudia's wedding rings. Some of the only things Stiles kept after his dad died.

He could imagine why he’d taken them off.

 

 

"I'm going outside for a little bit. In the alley,” Stiles said too casually. “And you can't come. You'll ruin it.”

 

Derek didn't exactly know what that meant but he wasn't willing to find out. "Either I, or one of the betas, accompany you or you don't go at all."

 

 

"Fine. I won't."

But there was a gleam of determination in his eyes that made Derek think he was lying, though there was no indication in his heartbeat, or at the very least, not going to give up.

 

And Derek had been right.

 

Stiles had asked, "I'm stepping onto the balcony to smoke, is that all right with you?"

Derek had thought, why not. He wasn't going to jump. Surely. Who would jump off of a balcony? And Stiles didn't bring anything out there with him besides his hoodie so Derek, against his better judgement, said go for it.

Stiles was pissy, best to just let him cool off by himself.

 

 

It was about fifteen minutes later when Derek thought it time to check on him. Only, when he stepped to the balcony doors, Stiles wasn't there.

 

 

An alarm went off throughout the house.

 

 

Derek found Stiles in the alley behind the house, surrounded by cans of half-eaten tuna.

 

Stiles turned towards him, something swinging in his arms. That something was a white cat with brown back legs. He was holding it under the armpits with his arms crossed over his chest, the cat's back pressed flush to Stiles' stomach. His arms made the cat's own arms stick straight out. With its whole lower body, and brown legs, dangling freely, it looked extra-long. The position looked somewhat uncomfortable but the cat didn't seem to mind.

 

“In my defense, I was left unsupervised.”

 

Derek watched him, and the cat. “Climbed off the balcony?”

He gestured one hand in a circle. “More of a clumsy tuck and roll to the ground but yeah, I did.”

 

He just got power moved by a seventeen year old. ‘Sneaking out’ just to show he could, and he didn’t even need to use the Babylon candle to do it.

 

“You triggered the alarms,” Derek said, as the betas inside watched them from the balcony. They couldn’t see what they were doing, they just knew that Derek and Stiles were convening in the alley.

 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t see you guys put that one down.”

 

They’d always been open and forthcoming with the client for security purposes. Maybe he shouldn’t do that anymore, considering he timed it perfectly with a shift change, like what he did on day one, and the only thing that stopped him from taking off again, if he had wanted to, was accidentally triggering an alarm.

 

"Don't feel bad. I've been dodging security since I was nine. You learn a few things." Stiles pet the cat in his arms. It purred. "I couldn't let you come with me or you'd scare away the cats, Mr. Werewolf."

 

Another cat, a tabby, scurried from under a dumpster. Braving Derek’s presence for the promised tuna. It hissed once.

 

Soon, it was ignoring Derek altogether and yowling in delight as it fed.

 

Other cats soon surrounded Stiles. He put down the one with fur leggings and scratched every head he would get his hands on. Some rubbed up against his legs and weaved between them. One stood, putting its paws to Stiles’ thigh, mewling for attention.

 

“We made a mistake,” Derek said, more to himself than Stiles.

 

A grey cat meowed at Stiles, pawing the empty tuna can. He meowed back. “Everything is a mistake. So just get used to it.”

 

A cat came out from under the dumpster, which Derek could only describe as a mix of The Grinch, The Lorax, and a pile of garbage, like Oscar the Grouch except it probably had Hepatitis A through Z.

Stiles was cooing at the cat, who was meowing in a deep, throaty way. "She's so cute, isn't she?" He opened another can of tuna and slid it to the cat.

It gobbled it with no reserve.

Derek stared between the pile of garbage cat and Stiles. "Yes," he said in monotone, for it was easier to just agree. Though he wasn't sure if Stiles should've been touching the disease bag.

 

“I don’t like cats. They’re shifty,” Derek said. The garbage cat made a beeline for his leg.

His wolf growled, but it came out of Derek’s mouth.

 

And Stiles growled back.

 

At Derek’s stare, Stiles said, “What, you’re the one growling all the time. Doesn’t feel good when it’s directed at you, does it?”

It didn’t feel bad, that was the problem.

Something on Stiles’ face told Derek that he’d stored the information and subsequent lack of reaction for later, in that perceptive part of his brain.

Derek tried to save face. “Just get your ass back inside.” He didn’t bother with a threat, because Stiles didn’t need any more verbal fodder to render Derek a terrible, speechless bodyguard.

 

 

As they came back inside, through the patio door, Erica was there, waiting with crossed arms.

“Are you out of your mind?”

Stiles thought for a second. “Yeah?” He moved to go back upstairs. This time, Derek kept an ear out for his footsteps.

Which remained in their room.

 

 

“You thinking the same thing I am?” Isaac was leaning against the back of the couch.

“What are you thinking?” Derek asked.

“That we should ‘Cask of Amontillado’ him?” At Derek’s blank look, “No? Just me? We wouldn’t have to worry about him getting out again if we brick him up under the house. There’s a crawl space. We could do it.”

As tempting as that was, he said: “No.”

 

 

There was a certain level of professionalism that Derek was expected to maintain. Which did not extend to Stiles who did insufferable things, like getting wasted or power moving Derek just because he could.

 

Derek’s retaliations may have been petty, yet beneficially satisfying, in subtle ways. Which was why he’d informed the pack about the safety drill they would be practicing at four that morning.

 

Derek had night shift, while Stiles slept in their room.

 

That particular drill involved Derek bursting into the bedroom, alarm blaring, turning on the lights, and shouting for Stiles to go down the ladder.

 

He stood in the late September chill, in bare feet and pajamas, on the front lawn.  

 

“What if I wasn’t wearing any pants?” Stiles said, rubbing his bare arms as the betas laughed and turned off the alarms.

“Then you’d be as you are now- the enemy isn’t half as nice as I am.”

He shivered. “That’s really saying something.”

 

Derek loved it when Stiles was asleep. Because he was less of a pain that way. And because sleep was good and healing and Stiles didn’t do it enough. Stiles had been sleeping on and off all day, only emerging from their bed room for snack, even hissing when Erica opened the blinds on his way to the kitchen.

So he’d gotten enough sleep.

And also, gotten on Derek’s bad side just to play with some dirty trash cats.

 

 

But the drill started a chain of events Derek hadn’t foreseen.

Retaliation.

 

 

Stiles changed his both of his phone’s ringtones.

Instead of Derek’s regular stock tone, it was a series of cats meowing every time he got a text.

 

It had to have been Stiles.

 

Derek confronted him, already planning the next drill. This time, he’d make sure to catch him in the shower. “How did you even get the password?”

He rolled his eyes. “Please. ‘177245’? The square root of Pi?” Stiles went back to his own phone. “You work in security for a living and that’s how you protect your information? Too easy.”

 

Derek changed his password. Even though it had been perfectly acceptable.

 

 

 

 

It was never quiet for Derek. Even when he tried to smother the sounds with a pillow or stay under the spray of scalding water from a shower.

 

Dogs in the neighborhood barking, birds migrating for the winter overhead, airplanes, cars driving by-

 

He’d been conditioned to not wake up during ‘normal or background’ noises.

But he’d been out of the game in Mexico and now he was rooming with Stiles, who, by nature, was loud- even when sleeping. Tossing and turning and talking, groaning. None of that should’ve bothered his sleep. He should’ve been able to sleep through it, but he was out of practice.

 

The approaching full moon didn’t help his heightened senses.

 

 

Derek had finally entered a rocky kind of sleep, past the sounds of Stiles’ fingers at his keyboard, when he was woken by a thud and scream.

 

He immediately shot out of bed, wide awake, gun in hand, pointing it at the threat.

 

That part of his training hadn’t atrophied with disuse.

 

And that threat was-

Stiles. Standing by his bed. A book on the floor by his bare foot, which had a red mark.

From where he’d obviously dropped it and subsequently vocalized his pain.

 

Derek sat down and put his gun back under his pillow, controlling his breathing.

He watched Stiles’, listened to his beating heart. “I wouldn’t have shot you,” he said after a moment.

Stiles nodded as he talked. Nodded to convince himself, maybe. He bent down to pick up his leather-bound book. “Oh, I know.”

“Were you worried I was going to?”

He laughed. It was a little too high, a little too panicked. “Ehhh- maybe?”

 

 

 

That morning, Stiles seemed to be ignoring the previous night’s Event.

Which was fine with Derek.

 

 

Derek was back from his morning run when he lifted his sweaty t-shirt over his head. Stiles, who was still in bed on his laptop, stood up.

 

“So that’s your tattoo! That’s so cool.” He could sense Stiles’ hand was reaching out to touch, to appraise, but Derek turned to face him instead.

“It’s a triskelion. The Hale family crest.”

Stiles nodded, eyes moving down Derek’s chest. His cheeks were pink. “It’s…pretty,” was all he said, before leaving the room.

 

 

 

Later that day, Stiles was in the shower reciting numbers to himself, with the occasional side commentary.

He didn’t know Derek was in the room.

 

Soon, he wasn’t just reciting numbers. It became a stream of consciousness, because he hadn’t taken his Adderall yet and had had way too much coffee that morning.

 

He could imagine Stiles wildly gesturing with his hands as he talked. “I don’t think I’m really meant to be here. Not like here, but on this planet.”

 

Derek snorted and shifted on his bed where he was reading Stiles’ copy of Crime and Punishment, bumping the nightstand in the process.

A full, luckily closed, can of Monster tumbled to the floor.

Stiles paused.

 

Shit, Derek had been found out.

 

In a normal tone, Stiles asked, “Are you in here?” Another pause. “And have you been listening the whole time?”

 

Derek, wisely, said nothing. Just picked up the can, sat the book down, and made his exit.

 

 

 

 

Derek almost couldn't believe what he was seeing. Stiles sleeping in his bed, in their room. Not dozing or working. Actually sleeping.

 

Stiles had reached the point of exhaustion, where his discomfort and reservations meant nothing.

 

Stiles was only in a t-shirt that said: ‘FREE LICKS’ and a pair of pizza-print boxer briefs.

 

Stiles was a stealth sleeper. He could sleep anywhere, after several days of course. Though microspleeping wasn't good neurologically.

Derek had found him dozing on the floor of the laundry room, folded sideways in the living room chairs, at the kitchen table.

 

 

"No, _you_ don't understand. I need these."

Derek turned around. "Stiles?"

 

He was on his back, a hand of his stomach. And looking at Derek, dark charcoal eyes staring through him. He held up his other hand, squeezing air. “This is important!”

 

Derek stood and made his way over. “What are you talking about?”

 

Stiles sat up, holding his hand out, like one would if they were gripping a bundle of something. “The _balloons_! They’re important to me and you’re not understanding that! I can’t just let them go," he said, more heatedly.

 

He was a sleep talker. Of course he was. Derek shook his head. Stiles was a ridiculous pain, even in his sleep. “OK, Stiles. Keep your balloons. I’m sorry.”

 

His hand dropped and his brow furrowed in confusion. “What balloons? You’re weird.” Then he flopped backwards and was asleep again.

 

Derek stared at him. “This is what happens when I try to be nice, you little shit,” he mumbled. He bent down and picked up the comforter that Stiles had mule kicked off the bed in his sleep.

 

Stiles woke up three hours after that. Heart pounding, eyes wide. He didn’t go back to sleep.

 

 

 

 

Derek didn’t used to have trouble sleeping, before the alpha. He couldn’t afford to. After vigorous training from Laura, he could go to sleep in minutes and wake up to the slightest noise, fully alert.

This helped with nightmares.

At the slightest glimpse of fire, of screams and smoke, of her smile and kiss the same day his family died, he’d wake up.

But Stiles’ mind was in a cycle of torment.

Derek would wake up as he fell into flame and be back to himself after a run.

Stiles didn’t have that luxury.

 

 

 

Stiles was playing some bastardization of poker and ‘never have I ever’ with Erica and Isaac the next afternoon. Mostly, it had devolved into ‘funny stories’ and Stiles cheating at cards.

 

“You were probably that kid who set fires just to watch them burn.”

“Wow, you have me pegged. Me and Scott used to make fireballs with sprayable sun screen and a lighter. Riveting stuff.” His eyes were darting between Isaac and Erica’s faces. “Or we used to put Draino, tin foil, and water into a plastic water bottle, which created a bomb and threw them in his backyard.”

“Why?”

Stiles stared at his cards. “Why not?”

“You would’ve been, what? Six at the time?”

“My parents, especially because my dad, worked a lot. Kind of gave me a free range lifestyle some days.”

Considering Derek had heard him talk to himself about befriending a wild wolf one time, the makeshift bombs shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

 

“Did you ever play knife party?” Erica asked. It was her turn to deal.

He held up his scarred hand. “I would always get to the fast part of the song and then lose.”

Every mutant with a healing factor had played that game.

It was practically a rite of passage.

“I did that as soon as I was bitten, but I healed, you idiot,” she said.

 

Seems their early years were similar, though he’d never tell Stiles that. It would, in the teen’ eyes, be condoning his actions.

Wolves were naturally reckless and thrill seeking, but they had the healing factor to back it up.

He and Laura used to be holy terrors. Cora tried, but he made sure to keep her at an arm’s distance, to not influence her.

Derek’s friends, from the basketball who were mundanes, tried to keep up. Taking turns touching electric animal fences, skateboarding tricks down the school’s cement steps-

It was honestly pure luck that none of them were seriously hurt, the dumb human fucks. Or sometimes his cousins, the wolves and mundanes both, competed: all in the same pack, but insanely overpowered, and trying to beat the wolves anyway. His mom would always make him play fair when he played ball against the human side of his family, keep himself down at their level.

And he’d try- most of the time.

 

It was Isaac’s turn to pry. “Weirdest place you’ve ever woken up.”

Stiles took a card from the center deck. “I woke up in a dumpster once.”

Erica’s eyes opened wide, a shocked smile growing on her face. “What?”

“Hey, when you’re trashed and your father sends a fleet of cops to collect your drunk ass off the streets and there’s a manhunt, you hide. And sometimes hiding involves vaulting a dumpster and knocking yourself out until you wake up an indeterminable amount of time later, only to drag yourself out and crawl home for the lecture of a lifetime.”

“Was the lecture pre or post shower?” Isaac asked.

_“Pre_. He -my dad- was that hardcore.” Stiles put his cards down; it was a flush.

 

Erica threw hers down, she had four of a kind. "I don't know how you keep winning, you little prick."

Without looking up from his tablet, Derek said, "He's counting cards."

Stiles turned around in his seat to glare at Derek. "Dude, seriously? You ruin everything."

Isaac’s eyes widened, throwing down his own cards. “You… snake in the grass. Who taught you to count cards?" He nodded to himself as he answered his own question. "Ah. Right. Criminal upbringing. How silly of me."

 

“Isaac, Erica, it’s almost your time to go on duty.”

The betas nodded and left, Erica flipping Stiles off as she did.

 

Stiles was still turned, watching Derek. Unprompted, he said, "I bet when you're not on a contract you stay holed up in your house."

"A recluse shut in with a guilty conscience and trust issues."

Boyd emerged from the security room, walking into the living room. He shot Stiles a look. Like, _'I want to agree with you verbally but he'd kill me'_.

Stiles nodded to himself. "Fucking knew it."

 

 

Boyd and Stiles talked tech for a little while.

Stiles was throwing Goldfish into the air and catching them in his mouth as he talked. “I have a worm on my laptop, not malware, just for protective purposes, in the event of a breach. Emails delete every twenty four hours, password change is on a six hour algorithm. Firewall is uncrackable and multiple failsafe protocols. Self-corrupting data, you know, the whole deal.”

 

Most of it went over Derek’s head. But Boyd seemed happy to have new someone to riff off of.

 

 

 

It had been an innocent quip, really. “Some wolves still claim their territory by peeing on things,” Stiles had said, as Derek and him were in their room.

And then there was a drill at midnight.

“You’re making me do this because I made that quip on wolves peeing things to mark their territory, aren’t you?” Stiles said, as he climbed down the ladder.

He hadn’t gotten a response.

 

And then, that morning, Jackson was working out in the living room. All abs and muscle-

 

“This is a house of horrors!” Stiles said, passing Derek to go upstairs.

 

He was stuck sharing a room with Derek, the betas constantly walked around shitless which stupidly chiseled bodies, and he couldn’t even pet the cats in peace without Derek the Big Bad Wolf accompanying him and scaring them away. Oh, and Derek made him do security drills at random.

Well, not at random.

They always seemed to follow an event that Stiles caused, that pissed off Derek.

Funny how that worked.

 

 

Stiles sat crisscross in an overstuffed armchair, laptop open. Working on things for Tantum. To his left was a tea cup with something that was definitely not tea.

"What are you doing?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you," Stiles said in monotone.

Isaac huffed a laugh. Then, only half-joking, he asked, "Wait- you're kidding, right?"

"Yes, of course I'm kidding. I'm just answering emails."

He plopped down on the couch. "Even muttie crime lords email each other?”

“How do mundanes do it?" Stiles asked, with an eyeroll.

"Messenger pigeons. It takes a while but it gets the job done."

Stiles laughed. "How else are we supposed to communicate? Phone calls are too easily bugged, Deucalion can't, or actually, won’t text and forget about an impromptu face to face meeting. Emails are the only thing I can actually get a proper worm protocol on- to securely delete them and make it impossible for someone to hack it, by using different routers."

"The supernatural underworld is so much more boring than I thought it was- somehow I thought mundanes and humans would operate so differently. Your job is a glorified secretary."

 

Stiles put an overdramatic hand to his chest. "I take offense to that. Tantum alone is valued at over six billion. My entire syndicate has an estimated fifteen billion dollar net worth in liquid  assets alone. We're the ones that bail the others out when Gerard fucks up a shipment of vampiric meal substitutes. Transferring funds, balancing the accounts, hiding the accounts in Switzerland and the Caribbean and the Caymans. And I'm working on tax write offs currently, which would be a lot easier if I wasn't working with full grown man babies." He rubbed at his eyes. "Maybe if the two other groups didn't hate each other so much, I wouldn't have to fix problems and deal with dysfunctions in the lower ranks. Passive aggressive emails are really frustrating."

"Well, they are ex werewolf hunters so I could see how that'd cause some friction."

 

Erica climbed over the back of the couch. She’d been listening from the security room.

She was as nosy as the rest of them. "So your dad taught you all of this?"

"Yeah."

"But he knew you weren't succeeding..."

"He wanted to make sure I knew this, just in case."

Which caused them more problems ultimately, in the end. Because his kidnappers had known he was privy to certain information, even if Stiles hadn't been able to give it to them. "And besides, the crime life isn't all people say it is. Most of my experiences are groaning behind a computer screen."

“So what you're saying is that you can fulfill your roll as the head from a laptop.”

"For the most part, yeah. I can just get other people to do the more up close and personal aspect of the job. Which doesn't bother me too much. The less I have to deal with these people in person, the better."

 

Konstantin was the right hand man. He managed territory, made sure people paid group dues, kept subordinates in line… He and Altair handled the day-to-day.

 

But when Stiles speak, his men listened.

God, ‘his men’.

They were his men now.

 

Jackson came into the kitchen for food.

 

Stiles had heard mention that his long-distance girlfriend was a banshee.

He knew a banshee. But he couldn’t imagine Jackson with someone like Meredith.

Banshees usually ended up in psych wards. Even though they were Class A, they were rare.

 

 

Derek was being a creeper-wolf at the dining room table. He was typing something on his iPad.

Probably a report to Deaton.

Jackson sat down next to Erica on the couch. His eyes narrowed before turning sideways and reaching into the cushion. He pulled out his Bluetooth speaker. He looked to Stiles.

"Oh. I was wondering where that was." Stiles had his phone in one hand, thumb rapidly moving across the screen as he typed with the other.

 

It was later on that day when Stiles mumbled something along the lines of ‘shit’s fucked’ when Jackson began his verbal assault in the kitchen.

"Do you think about anything that comes out of your mouth?"

"Actually, yes. I think it but sometimes it doesn't get filtered out."

"I would hate to hear the things you keep to yourself. You should really work on that."

Stiles shook his pill bottle. "Way ahead of you."

“Come to think of it, shouldn’t you be in school?”

Stiles moved back to the living room to get the rest of the books made. “I graduated early.”

“Or you just dropped out and got a GED,” Jackson said, downing the last of his water bottle.

“Or I actually used all three brain cells I possess and finished a year early.”

 

"So you're completely done?" He asked.

"Deaton is still teaching me Wicca and druid and sigils but with school, yeah, I'm done."

 

Erica passed Stiles a bag of half eaten black licorice, not before taking a handful of the sugary candy. "I found this in the laundry room, figured it was yours because no one else would eat this trash," she said, despite putting a handful into her mouth.

"Thanks."

 

“Actually, I was forced to leave early. Got kicked out for fighting.” Stiles rubbed his knuckles, over the pale white scars there.

“You’re like a lamer version of Batman,” Erica said.

 

He was the weird mutant, even at the all-mutant schools he attended. He was always too loud, too weird- too everything. Too dangerous, considering his father. So he was picked on. They tried to corner him in bathrooms and empty hallways. And Stiles tried to ignore them, at first. He really did. Then they brought his dad into it and he couldn’t just _stand_ there.

That’s what he’d told Konstantin, sitting across from him in a booth, ice cream between them, as the man stared at Stiles’ watery eyes and split lip.

 

But Stiles had won. And he kept winning.

 

Stiles wasn’t strong. He was shit at self-defense but what he did have was almost a lifetime of bottled up emotions and the ability to outlast, to keep going, and to fight for those he loved, protect those he cared about, despite being bloodied and a pained mess.

He would keep hitting, as he felt the skin of his knuckles splitting open, over and over again. The feeling of blood under his fingernails. The sticky, itchy sensation of the skin around his eyes and head and temples splitting open with clumsy but solid punches.

 

He just had to keep going. He didn’t have to be stronger or more skilled.

He just had to keep going.

 

He never told who it was or why he fought. Never said who threw the first punch

For the record, it usually wasn’t him. Usually some asshole swinging at Scott- acidic slurs on their breath as their fists connected with the face of his best friend, someone who _couldn’t_ fight back.

Then Stiles came, a solid kick to the balls and a shouted, ‘ _run Scott, I won’t let them take you away’_ and then one was jumping on Stiles’ back, grabbing him from behind, pinning his arms and the other was recovering, face red and tears spilling down chubby adolescent cheeks and Stiles tensed for the hit to the stomach, watching Scott pick up a bottle to smash it over the one of the guy’s heads and a shouted, ‘ _no they’ll hurt you’-_

 

Even before Scott was an omega- Stiles and Scott were outcasts at their mixed school in Beacon Hills. Stiles was that weirdo, undisclosed mutant with that weirdo, undisclosed mutant mother. Though, John was respected. He was a kind, good sheriff. So no one would say anything to his face about his _peculiar not right weird_ family.

But the whispers were terrible. And children were great at hearing whispers from their parents. So Stiles was bullied because the Adults said he was inherently bad. And Scott was, by default, because he was Stiles’ best friend, even though he was human at the time.

 

Fast forward to when they were fifteen.

Scott and Stiles were reunited in New York under circumstances that would make a Spanish novella or K drama look plausible.

But bullies existed everywhere, across species lines. And Scott wasn’t allowed to fight back. He was on mandatory dampeners and shift training for two years, when he was attending school. If he was in a fight, self-defense or not, he’d be sent to a detention center.

 

At first, Stiles went to a private mutant school in New York.

But he was kicked out for his control and behavioral issues.

And then he went to a public mixed school and then an incident with the janitor happened and it was homeschooling after that.

Mundies especially hated him. And the mutants hated him for representing everything humans hated about mutants; dangerous because of his lack of control.

“When you were still in school here, did the other students know who your father was?”

“Yeah. And that was rough. Kind of contributed to the outcast side. People assumed I was bad. Kids were told by their parents to stay away from me so I was shunned.”

 

Stiles didn’t understand a lot but he knew enough, more than a nine year old should know.

He knew but he never brought it up to his dad, he just pretended everything was normal. And being picked up in a black Escalade by some guys in suits and shades, told everyone who _didn’t_ know, do just that.

His teachers, as well as classmates, were afraid.

 

In those days, before Scott came to New York, Konstantin and Altair were his best friends.

 

“Nah, I just annoyed them as much as I could. Used to write and speak in every language I knew, besides English, just to get to them.”

 

Or how when he was younger, he'd be worse with accidentally switching between languages. Especially when his mother was alive and they'd talk and just switch in and out of English. But after his dad died, there was less of him speaking at home and more frustration on his dad's part, and there was no longer someone to speak with him so he got better at it, at not switching between languages.

Unless he wanted to antagonize someone, of course.

 

To Derek, Stiles said, “You get it right? At least, switching between languages on accident. You get close enough to somehow and it’s almost fluid, that unconscious slip.”

 

Derek nodded.

Stiles knew he’d understood, even if he pretended not to, most of the time.

It was probably like that for him, after his family, when it was only Laura and Peter left.

 

“You’re an agent of chaos,” Jackson said, eyes cast in judgement.

 

Improvise. Adapt. Overcome.

His motto in school, or for getting things past his dad.

 

 

 

Stiles stared out the kitchen window, watching the sunset.

He didn’t move.

 

And then the sun was rising.

Stiles blinked as the light hits his face and the betas switch shifts.

 

“Did you stay like this all night? You haven’t moved since I started night shift. That was six hours ago,” Jackson said.

Stiles yawned. “Really?”

“Do you need a knock out?” Jackson held up his fist. “Because I can give you a knockout.”

Stiles huffed and stood up, joints popping.  Knowing Jackson, he was being genuine. “I'm good.”

 

He didn’t want to sleep, because what waited for him in his dreams was so much worse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Derek was typing his report as he watched Stiles and the pack.

 

‘Prone to fits of panic and anxiety, as well as binge drinking and polysubstance abuse. Observed sleep disturbances, possible night terrors’.

He didn’t mention Stiles’ brand of coping, AKA, the worst kind: repression. other sleep

Laura would’ve thrown a fit.

 

“Believe it or not, I used to be worse. My ADHD has gotten better over the last couple of years. I’ve improved.”

 

“So what are you now?”

He shrugged. “Better.”

 

Derek came to his own conclusions as he typed.

 

John loved Stiles but revenge was in the forefront of his mind, especially because Stiles never _demanded_ his attention. Not verbally, anyway.

Derek suspected that was probably a contribution to his behavioral problems. A child, desperate for love, gaining negative attention. And every time John would yell or scold or lecture him, well- at least he was paying attention, right?

Stiles tried to stay out of his father’s way, tried not to make John worry. Because John had enough to worry about already.

So of course his ADHD symptoms got better.

Some days were better than others where Derek could tell it was easier for Stiles to pretend he wasn't hurting.

 

Konstantin said it was a fall- but there wasn't only one. It was a continuous free fall and you might never hit the ground- Derek had yet to.

 

‘I’m fine’, Stiles would say.

 

But words didn’t mean much, action did. If Derek asked someone, “You ok?”, and they nodded quickly while not making eye contact, saying “Yeah, fine”, then obviously it was bullshit.

And Stiles was supreme at it.

 

And Derek knew this because it was the same with Laura- he was used to missing the rest of his family but missing Laura was knew.

There was a certain advantage for someone being forced to grieve unalone.

instead of seclusion, Stiles was forced to have someone constantly be in his presence. Instead of pulling away, he had people trying to pull him back.  

 

Was this contributing to Stiles’ sleeping problems? Most definitely. Could Derek do anything about it? No.

He could only wait.

 

Stiles was throwing flour into a bowl. Music played silently from his Bluetooth speaker.

 

“I had a dream of a ship that we sailed in the night…”

 

Derek watched him a moment. His eyes were grey, he didn’t look up from the recipe he was reading on his phone.

 

“…Such a sweet, sweet call. The siren soothes my mind.”

 

His movements were slow, like he was half asleep.

 

“…Who am I going to be when the curtain is drawn?”

 

Derek stepped into the kitchen, making his footfalls heavier. Stiles looked up.

 

With a flour covered finger, Stiles turned off the music.

 “…The fortune said, ‘Flowers bloom with no regret’-”

 

"Why are you baking cookies at three in the morning?" Derek asked.

Stiles picked up a Monster, swallowing the remaining liquid. "Because I've lost control of my life."

 

Derek filled in the blanks: Stiles forgot to eat and was there now, hungry and awake.

 

"You bake?" Derek knew he could cook but baking was even more far out there. Though Stiles’ skill set was the weirdest amalgamation.

 

"Is that surprising?"

Derek looked him up and down. "Somehow, yes."

He whisked the contents of the bowl. “Rude.”

 

He held up the spatula, little bits of cookie dough sticking to it. “Want to lick it?”

Derek raised his eyebrow. “That’s how you get salmonella.”

Stiles shrugged. “Didn’t know a werewolf was so afraid of getting sick.”

 

He raised the spatula to his mouth. Derek found himself transfixed. He ripped his eyes away as Stiles moved on to finish rolling the cookies and cleaning up after himself.

 

Talking to Stiles was like walking into a maze that was constantly changing. He never knew how to _deal_ with him.

He was distracting and annoying and sarcastic. He wasn't necessarily nice or even pleasant most of the time. But he was a good person.

 

 

 

Stiles went back upstairs with his plate of cookies. Derek listened from the couch as he devoured all of them and promptly passed out in a food coma.

As Derek listened to his steady heartbeat, all he could think was, ‘finally’.

 

It wasn’t the noise that woke Derek.

It was the feeling.

Like watching a horror movie and you’re seeing through someone else’s eyes and it’s so atmospherically scary and the strings from the soundtrack were picking up and you knew something was coming, you were feeling the character’s-

 

It was the projection of someone else’s fear.

 

 

Derek woke to the sound of labored breaths, thinking for a moment that things were about to get awkward, until he turned his head to Stiles.

 

His wolf was perched on the end of Stiles’ bed, growling.

 

Stiles’ hand was scratching around his neck, kicking at the comforter wrapped around his legs.

 

Derek sprung up, nearly tripping, and wrenched Stiles’ hands away from his neck. His heart was thudding in his chest.

 

The touch sent Stiles into a panic.

He shot up, eyes closed, trying to jump over the end of the bed.

 

Derek used a hand to hold him back, fearing that he'd hurt himself. "You're safe!" Derek said, over Stiles’ panicked rambling. His screaming. He crouched down, putting an arm against his shuttering chest.

His screaming continued, eyes clenched shut. Heart beating.

 

Erica opened the door. With a death glare from Derek, she backed out and shut the door again.

 

"Stiles? Stiles!"

He was fighting Derek. Trying to beat off his hands. He kicked off the comforter and shielded his head from the blows his mind said were coming. "Stiles, it's me."

 

He shook his head. His heartbeat was a hum. "Please…"

 

 

 

He sat on the edge of the bed. Heads in hands. His breath was hitching. Tears refused to fall.

His breath came in short staccato breaths. The lights were flickering.

 

"It's not fair that you get to see me like this.” His voice was unsteady. And he was rubbing at his eyes. Grief and anxiety and fear hung heavily in the air. Surrounding them. So thick it could drown both of them.

 

 

Stiles, unsurprisingly, didn’t go back to sleep. He got up to shower and camped out on his laptop. He didn’t bring it up with Derek, and Derek didn’t bring it up either.

 

 

But Stiles had projected in his sleep. Wasn’t just chemosignals, either. It was Stiles’ power.

Whatever he was, his rage, his fear, his grief-

Derek had felt it. And he imagined, the pack felt it too. The next morning, as Stiles was getting ready, Boyd had told as much to Derek.

“What was that, last night? It felt like… I don’t know. Like Stiles’ power.”

“I don’t know either,” Derek answered honestly.

 

 

Derek likened Stiles to an injured little fox, roaming alone in the woods, hurt and jaded. It refused to let anyone near it, even those trying to help. It could no longer distinguish helping hands from those trying to hurt.

He remembered the foxes like that on the reserve. Talia would let him and Laura take care of them. They took a while to warm up to you, but when they did, it was worth it. They'd yip and play like dogs and cuddle like cats.

And that's how Derek saw Stiles, he probably shouldn't. Stiles was stronger than anyone gave him credit for and very capable- he was the monster client.

But a switch flipped in Derek's brain that Stiles likened to the foxes he'd played with as a child and he hasn't been able to switch it off since. And famously, wolves and foxes so t get along.

Derek was trying to get Stiles to warm up to him, just like a fox and how Derek WANTED Stiles to warm up to him.

Wolves and foxes tended not to get along.

 

And Derek wasn’t about to be the first wolf defeated by a fox.

 

Stiles slept like a boat on stormy waters the next day, if Derek could call it sleep at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

His mother humming under her breath in a language that had long since died. His dad’s baritone laugh. The soft brown of his father’s aura.

 

Stiles woke up mid-song and rubbed his eyes.

He hadn’t had that dream in a while. His dad, his dad’s death, was stirring up feelings he’d long since buried.

 

Derek turned on the lights, promptly dumping clothes on Stiles’ chest as he was still getting his bearings. But he mercifully followed up with a mug of coffee.

He had Stiles’ pills, which he held up and shook, before setting them on the nightstand.

 

Stiles sat up tiredly in bed like he was a puppet on strings and glared at Derek’s back, even as he mumbled a thanks, while he tidied the desk.

Derek was already dressed in his suit, because he was one of those deplorable morning people). He hadn’t woken Stiles up getting dressed.

 

 

Stiles had been warier around Derek, after the nightmare and panic attack combo.

 

He should’ve taken more Adderall. He shouldn’t have allowed himself those few hours of sleep. If it was possible to die of mortified embarrassment, Derek would have been out of a job a while ago.

He couldn’t let that happen again- Derek, seeing him like that.

 

And as bad as the nightmares were, the dreams were even worse.

Because even death couldn’t kill what never died, and that was love.

 

He looked to the rings on the nightstand as he sipped his just-perfectly sugared coffee. Imagined his mother and father, smiling side by side. He’d put them there for safe keeping. After Garrett and Violet, there was no telling the other opportunities there’d be to lose the rings.

He couldn’t keep them with him anymore.

 

 

Stiles looked back to Derek, now typing something on his work phone.

Everyone hid their dead things. Everyone pretended.

But he knew Derek carried his dead, carried their bodies, the same way Stiles did.

People died, and you carried their bodies to remember them.

 

“You have five minutes,” Derek said as he left their room, shutting the door.

 

He feared the sleepwalking the most.

It used to be a nightly occurrence, once upon a time. His dad hearing a crash in the middle of the night and dashing downstairs to find Stiles standing in the middle of a shattered glass, muttering in his sleep. Hearing the crunch of glass as he shifted from foot to foot and realizing his son couldn’t even feel it. His dad, pulling him away, grimacing as Stiles stepped blindly and unfeeling on the glass.

Scott had showed up unannounced that morning, seeing the bloody footprints on the carpet and thinking the worst, until Stiles wandered to him, relatively OK.

 

They thought it was a brain tumor at first but it wasn’t. Stiles never liked what the doctors called it: trauma.

Or his uncontrollable mutation.

A brain tumor would’ve been easier to deal with.

 

 

Stiles, for a moment, considered going to tell Derek off about picking out his clothes (the gall of the man). But he didn’t.

He was tired- more tired than when his head had hit the pillow that night, as Derek was on night-duty.

He made up for Derek’s clothing choice by wearing neon yellow socks with middle finger emojis.

 

And later, when Derek saw them and raised an eyebrow but said nothing, Stiles felt like he won at least part of the battle.

 

Stiles slid his pants on, fingers briefly stumbling over the scars on his thighs.

 

If he could just avoid sleep altogether, Stiles would be fine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That morning, with Stiles dressed and ready for his lunch appointment in Tribeca, he said, “I hate bad dreams.”

And because Derek didn’t know what else to say, he simply nodded and offered: “Yeah. Me too.”

A second of something passed between them, something akin to camaraderie. “But you know what’s worse? The good ones.”

 

‘Come back! Even as a shadow, even as a dream.’

Waking up to the sound of his family’s howling, to Laura’s laugh.

He preferred the screaming.

 

The good dreams always left him blinking open his eyes to a ceiling that wasn’t the loft’s. Or the mansion that no longer stood tall and proud among the trees.

 

 

 

Derek had almost forgotten the war Stiles was waging.

Derek was sitting on his bed, getting a confirmation on his phone for Deaton’s visit that evening, when the door knob turned.

He looked up, saw the flash of a hand and some projectile, thrown in his vague direction.

It landed a foot in front of him, then the door was slamming shut, followed by loud running steps.

 

He smelled it before his brain registered what he was looking at.

 

He got flash backs to his days in the high school locker room and how teenage boys didn't know the word moderation.

A can of axe duct taped down, creating a continuous spray.

 

Derek jumped up, taking his comforter with him. He tossed it over the can and wrapped the whole thing up. He tossed the bundle on Stiles’ bed as he walked to the door, debating on whether or not to kill Stiles.

 

Derek would decide when he found him.

 

 

Derek stalked downstairs, every movement of clothing and skin further kicking up the strong scent.

“Where is he?”

The betas were a mixture of stifled laughter and fear.

 

Stiles was leaning back, trying too hard to act casual.  “…Hey, buddy-”

Derek’s hand darted out and he grabbed Stiles’ ankle, dragging him to the floor.

“Seriously?”

“You have to be in there too. You’re hurting yourself.”

Stiles, breathless from getting knocked on his ass, laugh-wheezed, “Worth it.”

 

“Why are you waging war? You do realize we’re on the same side? And I’m here to keep you from being killed, or getting _yourself_ killed? I mean, an Axe bomb, really?”

 

"One, it's Old Spice. Two, you keep unplugging my phone charger by the nightstand. And you keep moving my Converse, so I keep having to look for them."

 

Derek took a second to process and then responded: "So you retaliate by killing my nose?"

"It's essentially the same as training a dog. When they mess on the carpet or something. But I didn't think you'd like being sprayed with water." His smile grew. "Or was I mistaken and you'd actually prefer that-"

Derek threw a pillow at him.

Stiles caught the pillow with his face. He pulled it away and said, "To take the high road is to live a life unsatisfied.”

Derek lifted a finger and towered over Stiles. “Just wait- I will get you back.”

 

Stiles sat up and hurriedly got off the floor. “I’ll do the laundry.”

Derek took a step forward. “We’re not even close to being even. I’m not like the passive bodyguards you’ve had in the past, I will seek vengeance.”

 “Bet. Bring it on.” Derek took another step closer and Stiles raised his hands. “Wait, wait. You can’t kill me yet. Deaton is stopping by today.”

 

 

He made Stiles clean all of their bedding to get the smell out.

Derek also left the window open, which had Stiles complaining and bundling up.

It was a full week before the smell was gone, and even then, Derek occasionally got a whiff if he sat on his bed too forcefully.

 

Deaton used ‘bringing books’ as his reason for coming. But Derek suspected he just wanted an excuse to visit his godson.

“Enjoying yourself?” Deaton asked, in a way that said he knew exactly how Stiles was feeling.

“How could I not? When I’m living in an IKEA catalog.”

 

“And your security? How are you doing with them?”

“Hey, I’m going to try OK? I haven’t Mcgyvered another escape, have I?”

 

Besides the balcony-cat incident.

Though Derek hadn’t mentioned that in his report to Deaton.

 

Erica and Isaac looked to each other and made a ‘pffft’ noise.

 

This was not lost on Deaton. He gave a long suffering sigh. “Stiles is right, he’s showing improvement and more obedience, though I know your frame of references are limited.”

 

 

The stack of leather bound books he passed Stiles must’ve been some kind of appeasement gift and it worked. A little bit.

 

They talked of Tantum and of the transition back over coffee and files.

 

“Deaton is handling the lawyers and all the legal stuff before I’m set to go back and actually- become the boss.”

Which is also why Deaton had been scarce, as far as Derek knew. He’d sent emails to Derek and his team, telling them all of the prep work that went into Stiles taking over.

 

“Under normal circumstances, there’s a succession ceremony, as a formality. But considering Deaton’s been the stand in for three months, the syndicate needs a head _now._ ”

 

And Derek was just biding his time.

 

Stiles being next to Deaton and occasionally smiling at Derek when his godfather was looking away seriously reminded Derek of a little kid messing with their sibling and then running to their mother and sticking out their tongue when they thought they were ‘safe’. Cora used to do that.

Only, Deaton would be leaving soon. And every time Stiles made a face at him, Derek stared right back, scowling.

 

And by the time Deaton left after eating Thai takeout with them, hours later, Derek knew that Stiles had forgotten all about Derek’s threat.

 

 

The drill at three that morning was especially long.

And may have involved a cup of ice water.

 

“What, you think that last drill is going to make me behave?” Stiles asked that morning.

He was passing Derek on the stairs. “Would growling at you convey my displeasure with being woken up to a face of cold water?”

 

The quip caught Derek off guard as Stiles passed him, putting a pale hand on his shoulder as he did. The wolf waited at the top of the stairs for Stiles, ears perked up.

Go back to sleep, he told it.

 

 

 

Derek was reading Stiles’ copy of Machiavelli’s ‘The Prince’ in the living room hours later when

a hand appeared in front of him, dangling his car keys.

The hand retracted before Derek could snatch them. He turned to see Stiles half-leaned over the back of the couch.

"Where'd you get these? I thought they were in my-" he tipped slightly up off the couch to pat his pockets. In the hallway earlier... "You can pick pocket,” Derek said, acquiescent.

 

Stiles stood up fully, holding the keys. "Grew up around criminals, remember? And you'd be surprised how easy it is on a distracted target."

Derek chose not to comment on being distracted earlier. Instead, he glared at the keys in his hand. “How did you really do that?

Stiles held up his index and middle finger like a sideways V. “It's all in the fingers.”  

“That's all?”

“That's all.” He thought a moment. “Well, and there’s misdirection. Like if I touch you on your right shoulder, I’m stealing from your left pants pocket.”

“I used to have a client who would try to put food in my pockets and I'd catch him every time.”

“Then he wasn't very good.”

Stiles hadn’t offered him his keys back. He closed the book and stood up. “What do you want?”

"I need to get out of here. Like now."

Derek walked around the couch and held out his hand. Stiles placed the keys in his palm. "For what?"

Stiles bounced back on the balls of his feet. He was jittery, which probably wasn't a good thing. "For _things_. And if you refuse to let me get my car, then you have to drive me."

He looked desperate. He _smelled_ desperate. His heart was fluttering. Like he'd vibrate right out of his skin. He smelled like the beginnings of a panic attack. It was coppery. Like metal. With that electric scent.

Derek could do with some time out. And he didn't want Stiles to go stir crazy (crazier) this early in the game. "Fine. What do you need to get?"

 

Isaac and Jackson accompanied them. Silent shadows, trolling behind them.

 

“You're not allowed to criticize my flannels because all you wear when you're off duty is Henley.”

Derek wisely said nothing.

 

“I can drive,” Stiles said, as they approached the Mercedes.

“No, you can’t.”

 

"Flowers. You had me hurry you 'because it's an emergency' to Lowes, at almost six at night, because you need flowers?" Derek's senses were assaulted.

There was a man clad in a ball cap and headphones, eyes to his tablet. An elderly couple bickering about what kind of petunias to get. A teenage girl going through her backpack.

 

Stiles was testing out the wobbly quality of a flat, metal cart's wheels. "Plants, actually. I miss being surrounded by plants."

 

You couldn’t get too used to a safe house because they could be burned at any moment. That’s why it was a house, not a home.

Derek knew that Stiles knew that- considering he’d been able to stay at his penthouse for less than a week before another attack. And then his other security had six other burned safe houses, before Derek was hired.

 

“I know there are ‘rules’ or whatever, but I need that surrounding life, you know?”

Whether having the plants made Stiles feel closer to his father or mother, or if it was something mutational (which was definitely a possibility), Derek ended up giving in.

Why not. If it kept him calmer, more willing, then Derek would get all the plants.

 

Stiles had a habit of riding the cart, putting a foot on the metal and pushing off with the other, propelling himself forward.

So Derek ended up pushing the cart.

 

On principal of being a hardass, Derek pressed on. "Aren't there enough at Tantum?"

"You don't even know, dude." Stiles shrugged. "But I'm talking about my living space. There's something about having plants around that lightens everything up."

"I'm inclined to believe you. But then again, you also say ketchup on eggs is good."

Stiles bumped him in the shoulder. "Shut up. It is good."

 

Stiles picked up an aloe vera plant and put it on the cart.

"For when you get too tenacious in your cooking?" Derek said.

 "You love my tenacious cooking." Stiles was touching the succulent, applying just a bit of pressure.

_I do, but I'm not going to admit it._ "Mm-hm," he said noncommittedly.

" _And_ I haven't burned myself yet."

"Note the 'yet'. Note it carefully."

 

They continued throughout the store. A hibiscus joined the aloe vera. As well as lavender and several other types of succulents.

 

"Can werewolves get allergies?" Stiles asked.

"No."

"You're sure?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Well, technically you're allergic to wolfsbane- which is a plant. And mistletoe, granted almost everyone is allergic to mistletoe to some degree. And mountain ash."

 

 

When they got to the register, the price was too high for mere plants in Derek's opinion, Stiles pulled out his card. It was black.

Derek had seen it before. A credit card with no cap.

 

 

You couldn’t tell Derek was a mutant. But not everyone had that luxury.

 

Stiles’ eyes were a vibrant, inhuman green.

 

Derek watched the cashier stare at Stiles.

He crossed his arms, scowling, and stared right back.

 

The cashier stopped staring.

 

Stiles turned with a raised eyebrow as he moved the plants back on the cart. Derek helped him, continuing to eye the cashier.

Mundanes lacked tact in their judgement.

“You are the least mobster- mobster I know,” Isaac said, as they unloaded plants from the back of the Escalade.

“But I can pretend. Which is all that matters.”

The plants were moved to the patio and balcony, as well as the kitchen windowsill and by the sliding glass doors in the living room. A single plant went to their room, on the desk by the window. The rest were set in the sitting area in front of their room.

 

 

After Stiles was done fondling every plant, and depositing them in pots, he retreated to their room.

He didn’t look up at Derek, but there was a lilt in his voice, taking on that ‘shy, southern maiden’ quality when he got into an especially teasing mood, and said, “I’ll get shy if you stare at me so intently.”

 

Did everything he say have to be an innuendo? Was it just the way he said it or was it Derek reading into things? “I’m not staring, I’m listening.” A pause, then, “Am I distracting you?”

 

He had his earbuds in, listening to something at 2x the speed. Derek tilted his head to listen, the way Stiles described as ‘like a dog’.

 

“Even though Scott’s a wolf, I forget about your hearing,” Stiles said, taking out an ear bud. “I’m listening to some reports. It gets done faster if I speed up the video.”

Stiles laid down to sleep that night. Derek stayed in the living room on his iPad, tracking him the entire time. After two hours of unmoving silence, Stiles put in his headphones to watch obnoxious YouTube videos.

 

Just as Derek was standing up to go to bed as Erica came off her shift, Stiles came down the stairs.

“It’s orange juice time.”

Derek didn’t stay for the Erica and Stiles banter in the kitchen.

Their first day at Tantum was tomorrow. One of them needed to sleep.

 

 

 

Stiles didn’t sleep that night. Only came into their room a few hours later and sat up in his bed on his laptop. His ear buds were in but there was no music playing.

Maybe having two of the betas up 24/7 was further enabling Stiles’ poor sleeping habits. After all, he was guaranteed a companion any hour of the night.

 

But after getting out of the safe house and getting plants, he did seem calmer. Even if that meant he wasn’t ‘calm’ enough to sleep, it was still a small step forward.

 

Derek had walked into the kitchen that morning to start a pot of coffee for Stiles when he saw Isaac seated at the island.

He looked at Derek. “You know what Stiles said to me last night? He said, ‘Human beings were never meant to have chlamydia, right? So someone obviously did it with a koala at some point’. Mind you, I was asking why he was still awake and that’s how he answered me.” He stared forward. “And let me tell you, that idea is haunting me.”

 

 

Stiles’ suit was black and fitted, with a white button down, for his first day at Tantum.

He looked like a mob boss, no doubt about that. Especially because he’d be surrounded by other suits.

That is, until he stepped out of the Mercedes and opened his mouth.

 

He was healed from Garrett and Violet’s attack. Only dark purple lines on his fingers and wrists remained.

 

“Wait, I have to how you something.” Stiles lifted up a pant leg, to reveal dark green socks with white pot leaves.

‘Why are you like this?’ Derek wanted to say. But all he did was look to the ridiculous socks, back to Stiles’ face, and turn away.

 

“You’re no fun,” Stiles said, strapping on his holster. He fumbled the knife and caught it.

 

Derek took a centering breath in. “A falling knife has no handle, Stiles.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I don't know. You've seen how his eyes change, right?" Jackson asked, to the other betas in the security room.

"Yeah, and it's not normal, either. Like just one color to another. There are a bunch. And it's not like we know what triggers it," Isaac said.

Erica nodded to him. She at the desk of computer monitors. "I'm adding this to the rules: We're really not allowed to ask. Stiles, Scott, and Deaton are probably the only ones who know. So no cheating. We have to use our deductive reasoning."

Isaac looked to her. "Or we could use WebMD."

“It’s not like he has a cold.”

“No, Web ‘Mutant Doctor’. Wrong ‘MD’, Erica.”

She considered it. “I feel like it’s cheating but I’m too curious to say no."

 

She entered the criteria. Changing eyes, affinity for plants, thunderstorms-

 

Isaac squinted at the screen. "Witch, kitsune, a couple species of fae. This makes no sense."

"That's what we get for using the mutant equivalent of WebMD. You have a stomach ache and they say it's cancer and you're dying."

 

 

 

"Did you take your medicine or...?" Derek asked cautiously.

Stiles straightened his tie, brushing past Derek. "I really don't need a nanny, despite what you may think." He turned to Derek. "And no, I forgot. So thanks, I guess. But seriously, I can handle remembering the Adderall."

Derek clamped down on the smug smile threatening to take hold as Stiles retrieved his medication.

Stiles shouldered his messenger bag with a nod and they were off.

 

They used the midtown tunnel in Queens, taking them twenty five minutes.

Stiles texted on his personal phone in the backseat the entire time, leg bouncing and slamming back his coffee.

 

The security guard at the front gate waved them in.

 

 

 

Derek had already coordinated with Tantum security for their first day back. But he talked to them again.

Stiles wasn’t paying attention.

He probably had other things on his mind.

 

Stiles was stepping into the office for the first time as the boss.

He’d be sitting where his father sat, in the same capacity.

 

He was welcomed back by Konstantin, Altair, and Deaton arms carrying loads of paper.

 

Derek sat down on one of the couches with Crime and Punishment. He’d probably get through most of the books in the office by the end of the contract.

Stiles had a personal P.O. box. Tantum had a P.O. box, as well. This, Derek was aware of.

What he was not aware of was the sheer volume of mail it contained.

 

Condolences for his dad, legal paperwork to fill out and send back, business offers.

 

Derek watched as he scrapped almost everything pertaining to his dad or the funeral.

 

Stacks of letters were piled high as Konstantin brought him those plastic crates from the USPS.

 

He emailed people as he went, made notes to himself on the side, and altogether, looked bored with the monotony that came with sifting through mail.

 

“Would it be too direct to just send a postcard with the word ‘no’ written on it?” Stiles said, picking up what was no doubt some kind of proposition.

Altair answered him. “Yes. But please do not. We don’t need the Old Dominion from Suffolk on your case.”

 

“We’re sending out thanks for loyalty and service to the syndicate. Monetary gifts, usually. Or services,” Stiles explained aloud, as he contained rubber-stamping documents with his signature.

“Don’t forget about all those invites to Argent clubs and Tantum owned businesses. People love those,” Konstantin said.

 

 

 

Stiles had taken off his black suit jacket, as he sat in front of his laptop screen in just his waistcoat.

 

Stiles rolled a quarter over his knuckles. He moved his hand in a fluid motion and the quarter was gone. With the same bored expression, the quarter appeared in his other hand. “It passes the time,” Stiles explained.

“And channels your nervous fidgeting,” Erica said.

He threw the quarter at her in response.

 

Watching his long fingers work was entrancing.  

Konstantin said Stiles had the perfect hands for it.

 

 

Derek warned the betas; “Hey, watch out- he’s a pickpocket. And pretty damn good at it.”

“Oh, I know. He got me yesterday morning. Took me an hour to realize my personal phone was missing,” Isaac said, on his way in to swap with Erica.

 

Why must he be forced to work like this?

 

 

Deaton stopped by to catch Stiles up on a to do list.  

He wore every hat in the company, so he was busy most of the time.

 

There were flowers and gifts from group members being wheeled in. Stiles stood and looked at the bounty with dull eyes.

 

Stiles had work to sign off on. Official paper, with Tantum’s seal and everything.

 

“I also have these.” He handed Stiles a stack of fresh business cards. “We need this done by the end of the day.” He pointed to the stack of papers he’d given Stiles to look over, and exited the room.

Business cards with Tantum’s spiral and location and main lobby number.

Isaac laughed. “A business card for the mob.”

“For a _company_. We do have a legitimate business,” Stiles defended.

 

 

 

As Stiles was coordinating movements with the other two groups, he said, “I can’t harm them. But I can annoy them. I don’t want to make them too happy, you know?” Stiles leaned back in his chair. “It’s like a minotaur; you don’t want to make it mad, but you really don’t want to turn it on.”

“You could have just said Catch 22,” Jackson said.

“Now where’s the imagination in that?”

 

"These plants are jacked. Like, serious juicers," Jackson said, rubbing a leaf between his thumb and index finger. "Now that I think about it, this place has a lot of greenery for being Crime Syndicate HQ."

The sound of Stiles clicking something almost violently with the mouse was joined by his answer. "Yeah. My dad couldn't keep a plant alive no matter how hard he tried and when he found out I have a way with plants, he bought a ton. And then made me take care of them."

 

 

They didn’t leave the office until ten at night. And by then, Stiles was exhausted. His suit jacket was flung over one shoulder, tie loosened, the first button of his waistcoat undone.

 

 

Derek accelerated, decelerated, and made a wrong turn on the way back to the safe house.

 

Derek watched Stiles’ eyes droop once more in the rearview before checking the black BMW that was three cars behind him. “I have a tail,” he said into his wrist. The maneuvers hadn’t worked, it still drove behind them.

“We’re on it.”

 

Stiles blinked, eyes squinted in something like neutral amusement. “That was a 7G turn.”

 

“All right, double back around,” Derek said to the betas. “Let’s lose them.”

 

“They really coordinated that well with my first day back.”

He sounded too weary to actually sound scared.

 

Stiles’ first day back was no hidden information. The amount of times they would have a tail would fluctuate, but be the strongest the first couple of weeks back, then get more spread out. Or so was Derek’s experience.

 

Shading spells, especially those for humans, were incredibly weak. The ride from the safe house to the office was stretched out long enough for the vast majority of shading spells to wear off.

 

Stiles was too tired to give a damn. “I’ll give Altair word about the beamer,” he said.

 

 

Stiles stripped off the pieces of his suit in their bedroom.

 

 

 

Later, they’d get a confirmation from Konstantin.

“We got the guys from a CCTV in the beamer. We’ll handle this from here.”

 

 

Stiles dealt in secrets. They were his currency

 

Stiles’ face was pressed to the window of the backseat the next morning when he said, “Stop the car.”

“Here?” Derek asked.

“Yeah.”

 

He spoke into his wrist to the Escalade. “Pull over.”

“Why?” Was Jackson’s response in Derek’s ear piece.

“I don’t know, just do it. Watch us and have the van keep going.”

 

They were under the bridge, next to an entrance to the underground.

 

A homeless were-hyena was sitting against the entrance with a cup. One of her eyes was golden.

 

Stiles fished a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet and put it in her cup. “How’s the weather in New Jersey?”

“Overcast. But the clouds will pass soon.”

 

Derek wasn’t so stupid as to think they were just talking about the weather.

 

They got back into the Mercedes and were off.

 

“If we were in Victorian times, I’d start a ring of child pickpockets. But now, I have a network of homeless people who are my eyes and ears.”

 

 

Crime was evolving. Because the syndicate knew who the real enemy was, they were helping the ones at the very bottom get back at the ones who sat at the top.

Or becoming the very top.

 

 

 

“Our guy in North Chelsea needs help with that gallery,” Altair said.

Stiles nodded. “I’ll handle it.”

Altair nodded once before leaving the office.

 

Stiles stood up from his chair. “OK, so we’re going to North Chelsea, I guess.”

As Stiles put on his coat and typed something on his work phone, Derek didn’t move from his spot on an the couch.

 

Stiles finally paused to look at Derek. “Dude. Come on. Let’s go.”

 

Derek crossed his arms, mind firmly made up. “Counteroffer. You get someone else to go and deal with the potentially deadly situation. ‘That guy’ is a gang member, correct?”

Stiles sputtered, pocketing his phone. “It’s fine, I can handle this.”

 

Derek didn’t respond. Just stood up in Stiles’ face as he assured Derek how ‘fine’ it was.

Stiles’ face got red and he sat back in his chair, not bothering to take off his coat.

 

“Can you trust me this once?” He said, throwing his hands up.

With no hesitation, Derek responded, “No.”

 

Stiles gave a long suffering sigh before taking phone out and putting it to his ear. “Cordova. I have something for you.”

 

Derek sat back down and picked up his book, pleased with himself.

 

 

“Hey, look, I’m going to try my hardest not to get involved and handle things personally. Some things will demand my presence, price on my head be damned. But it will come up eventually where there’s something _I_ have to do. No matter how much you don’t like it.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it, Stiles. ‘Liking’ has nothing to do with this. I’m here to make sure you’re not shanked at some random meet up that someone else can handle. If I can eliminate at least that threat, then I’m happy,” Derek said.

 “Wow, you? Happy?”

“It’s a rare occurrence, only tied to the job.” Derek said in the flattest way possible.

“Wolf’s got jokes tonight.” Stiles pulled himself closer to the desk to type away at his laptop. “This isn’t just some 9 to 5 job that I can always just forget about on the weekends.”

 

Derek stared at him with the expression that Stiles had grew to know well- ‘ _I’ve been doing this a long damn time. I’m aware of that, you sarcastic little shit’._

 

Stiles had dug his copy of A World Apart from his messenger bag. He was scribbling in it; Derek recognized the symbols, number, and words as a kind of code. He closed it again, when his desk phone rang.

They were sending someone up.

 

A woman in head to foot leathers, black hair rustled from the wind. Her bike helmet tucked under her arm as she said spoke in a hurried tone, eager to tell the boss what she’d seen.

 

Judging by the sparks Derek saw…the way she smelled…

She was a kitsune.

 

“I’m back. My report is already on its way to you.”

“Back for you son’s wedding, right?”

 

As Derek watched them, he was impressed with how in touch Stiles was. Even with smaller members of Tantum.

But, then again, his father had been the same way.

 

She bowed her head and made an exit.

 

“She makes a great spy. Considering she’s a woman based out of India. She’s like a sleeper agent.”

 

Stiles’ syndicate had people all over the world, even though their global presence wasn’t complete recognized yet. That’s something John was trying to accomplish (and he had been close, with the monopoly in the States, he had nowhere to go but up).

 

"How many offices does Tantum have?"

"Hmm. Nationwide it's something like forty three. Almost in every state."

 

“So, you really do have people everywhere,” Jackson said.

“We’re like the Illuminati, but real.”

 

 

He’d taken one of Derek’s pens when he wasn’t looking.

Stiles had dissected it, bits of plastic and metal laying on his desk in a line.

“So, jumping in. How would one go about it?” Isaac asked.

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Why? Planning a career change?” Derek glared between the two of them. Stiles said, “What? We have great benefits. You even get dental.”

 

Stiles leaned back in his chair. “You know, the infamous rulers of the Chinese underground, the Chinese Triads, take their traditions and initiations seriously. Many of the more elaborate inductions methods have fallen by the wayside for the Triads, as a security measure in this evolved age of police operations. One ritual the Chinese Triads haven’t abandoned is the blood drinking ritual. New recruits have to drink a bowl of their own blood.”

“That…sure is something,” Isaac said.

“Other gangs have taken historic rituals and twisted it for their own purposes, like the bushido code and the ritual of seppuku. But we’re not like that. My dad wasn’t that tacky.”

 

Ritualistic suicide by disembowelment, used by the samurai to retain honor.

 

“First, you carry out tasks dictated by the syndicate. You ever seen Fight Club? You know ‘Project Mayhem’? It’s like that, just less ‘domestic terrorist-y’. And as a result of my dad’s law enforcement background, you then get pepper sprayed and tazed at the same time and you can’t make a sound. Then you’re tattooed and can join.”

“Wow.”

“His logic was that if you could withstand pain without being a little bitch, then you earned the right to carry the spiral.”

“What about Scott? And Deaton?”

“Not everyone you see is a fully-fledged member of Tantum, as a group. We do actually run legitimate businesses, with people who are employed but haven’t jumped in. You can tell the difference by the spiral.”

 

“The tattoo helps to weed out undercovers. Most aren’t willing to go as far as getting a tattoo. Those that are, well, there are still ways to weed them out.”

 

The police mostly left Hale Security alone. They dealt with humans, which were small fish in comparison to the mutant pond. Why track down a local human gang when there was a nationwide crime syndicate of the supernatural?

 

“Ever had the Feds after you? They don't quit. MPs are almost as bad.”

“How did you possibly get involved with MPs?”

“Trade secret.”

 

“What about the Argents? Besides being blood-related, of course.”

“Oh. Well, a game of Russian Roulette.”

“Yikes.  
“Yeah. And you already know, if you’re a wolf, how to join the Alphas. Though, if you’re not, you have to…well, we’re not going to mince words here. You kill someone.”

Isaac didn’t ask anymore questions.

 

 

 

It was continued like that for Stiles’ first week back. Individual meetings, paperwork. Though Deaton made it clear Stiles would not be going in to Tantum during the weekends if it was avoidable.

 

The sheer volume of work he had to handle meant going in early and not leaving until the late evening.

 

Derek woke up him up most mornings. Because he’d just hit snooze on his alarm over and over.

The alarm sound drove Derek crazy.

And Derek’s wake up call left no room to go back to sleep.

 

Derek set up a schedule in his mind, like he did with all clients. He broke down routine into the simplest of form. Sleep, eat, work, eat, sleep, repeat.

Only problem was, Stiles wasn’t like that. And refused to be.

It had been awhile since he’d dealt with teenagers and Stiles’ first night was his rather unfortunate warm up.

 

The only thing that Derek could really pinpoint was the moment they got back from Tantum, no matter the time, Stiles would change out of his suit, throwing pieces as he walked into their bedroom. Derek was constantly trailing after him, so he wasn’t left to trip over Stiles’ shoes.  And even then, sometimes he didn’t.

Straight for the kitchen (or something on Xbox Live) or to the kitchen table for laptop work or outside to play with the cats or smoke. He stayed out there to make international phone calls to people who had just woken up. Only then would he realize he was still in his suit and then go change.

Chaos was Stiles’ natural state, Derek determined.

 

But he’d keep pushing for that schedule, little by little.

 

 

 

They’d just gotten back and Stiles was playing a card game with Erica, unwinding from some fiasco of the day.

 

The full moon was coming.

Derek felt its pull more strongly as an alpha.

And it used to be unbearable- the urge to shift and run wild. In Mexico he had. But since starting the contract, it was becoming easier. He no longer always felt like a wolf in human skin, waiting to shed and unleash the beast.

Maybe it was the sense of structure and purpose again, though those two things were relative when it came to Stiles and his mob life.

Though the urge to full shift was stronger than ever. But he wouldn’t do it- it was harder to come back from. Unlike raging in alpha form, he would destroy a room and come back into himself.

But when he truly took the form of a wolf, he didn’t always come back.

 

Stiles had pointed at the moon as they walked to the Mercedes that night. “Time to howl, wolf-boy.”

 

 

Derek’s first full moon with Stiles ended and began like the first day of the contract.

 

Peter called.

And that’s all it took.

 

Derek was standing in the middle of their room. He’d snapped his phone in half and clawed the pieces of metal and plastic apart.

 

The betas moved around restlessly outside.

They could feel it like he could, through their bond.

 

 

Stiles entered the room. He’d been waiting outside for the growling to die down. “You done?”

 

Derek just nodded, dropping the phone, turning away.

His eyes were red.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

 

“When was the first time?” Stiles asked him, standing by the door.

 

And Derek told him.

The first time had been minutes after becoming alpha. It physically hurt him, thinking back. It was his anger and denial and rejection and grief that caused a wave of pain, physical and emotional. Every inch of his being NOT wanting to be the alpha because of what it meant. His sister was dead. The person he cared most about in this world. He destroyed his room.

The betas were terrified. Because as wolves they knew Derek was the alpha and Laura was dead and they were afraid.

Then it happened again, in Mexico. Less than a week later in some shitty inn.

Then again and again. Sometimes he would actually black out, just let the wolf take over. He’d drown in a sea of red and rage and shift fully. The pack would find him in the desert, covered in blood that was not his own.

 

“Just passing through life like an empty freight train. You need to get in touch with your emotions, man.”

“You are really the one to give me advice on my emotions?”

 

If the itch in his bones from the moon could calm down, that would do him some good. That itch that told him to shed his skin and become a full wolf.

But he didn’t trust himself enough to take the form of a wolf again. Not after Mexico.

 

Once Derek forced anger to work again as an anchor, he’d be all right. The pack would be all right.

 

Derek began to pick up the pieces of his phone. He’d need another work one.

 

“You’re like the Fort Knox of repressed emotions. You do a good job of stockpiling anger, though.”

 

 

Stiles loved giving Derek shit. And he had a habit of bringing those around him down to a lower station-

Professionalism be damned.

 

It took a matter of days for Stiles to make his way under Derek’s skin.

He was brilliant and funny, though Derek would never admit it. Some days were harder than others, to keep his composure when Stiles was doing some dumb shit. He was also irritating as hell. As they talked or had a verbal sparring session, sometimes he’d be purposefully obtuse because that got to Derek more and Stiles knew it.

He was disorienting.

 

Everything about him- he was dangerous. This Stiles that wasn’t just an annoying kid. The way they’d talk about anything- he was dangerous. He was too close, too easy to get lost in. The way he smiled and the color of his lips-

 

 

 

Stiles popped two of the orange capsules with a can of Red Bull, after muttering an ironic ‘YOLO’. Derek thought it was uttered ironically, but there was no telling with Stiles.

He dove back into whatever number crunching he was doing on his laptop.

 

Derek didn’t have night shift- leaving Stiles to be someone else’s problem for the next eight hours. He’d gotten a new work phone and plugged it in on the nightstand.

 

Stiles was kind enough to keep both of his permanently buzzing phone on silent. But with werewolf hearing, it didn't mean much. The vibration was a constant _bbrrr, brrr_ against whatever surface the phone was resting on. And because he seemed to get some kind of notification every other minute, it was grating. Slowly withering away Derek's patience. Even his wolf's ears were pushed back, snout buried in the thick, black tail to escape the sound.

One of his betas was in charge of Stiles for the night. Another sleepless night, for Stiles. Derek had been enjoying sleep when that constant buzzing brought him out. He'd tuned in to the noise in the living room.

 

Derek, clad only in a white tank and black sweat pants stalked down the stairs.

 

Jackson, who was laying on the couch with his phone, sat up immediately. Detecting his alpha's frustration. Stiles was on the one of the arm chairs, his back to Derek.

He walked behind him, reaching over, and plucked the phone from his hand.

 

 

"Derekk _kkkk,"_ Stiles said, holding onto Derek's midsection. His face was pressed into his back, words tickling his spine. "Please."

 

If only he could get this on film. Stiles, the successor for a crime syndicate, whining and hugging his bodyguard around the middle because his phone had been confiscated. And honestly, he could've given it back, and just turned off the vibration, but Stiles reaction awakened that part of him that made him want to mess with the teen, if only so he'd pay him so much attention, touch him- be at his mercy-

and that was his wolf getting weird. Best not let those thoughts continue. Ever.

 

“It’s not like I’m not trying to irritate you.”

“Well then, you just must have a natural talent for it.”

 

 

 

Stiles wasn’t exactly self-conscious of his body, or his scars. Probably equal parts denial and fake confidence, meeting sheer exhaustion.

Maybe he didn’t even think about the marks. On his leg, on his thighs. The lightning on his shoulder. Only when someone asked did he get uncomfortable.

 

Growing up with werewolves, Derek was never taught to be ashamed of his body, or to really care when others were in various states of undress. They were constantly shifting in and out of wolf forms and ripping clothes.

 

Derek found it somewhat endearing that Stiles was trying to be as quiet as possible, even though he was failing. He dropped his phone, whisper-hissed ‘fuck’, and paused before slowly retreating it.  

Derek had super hearing. A bathroom door meant nothing.

But he appreciated Stiles trying.

 

Stiles, thinking Derek asleep, stepped out in only black, white-lined boxer briefs. There were water droplets clinging to his skin. He yawned, moving to the bed to grab his clothes.

 

There were marks on his body. Patches of pink and lavender and glints of white on his already pale skin. Derek didn't allow himself to stare. Or ask. He just closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

 

“So you know when you don’t get enough sleep so you drink a lot of coffee to compensate and then your stomach feels awful?” Stiles took another sip from his mug. “That’s where I’m at right now.”

Stiles was standing in the kitchen with Boyd. “You ever want to have a caffeine ride again? Just sprinkle in some wolfsbane.”

“No,” Boyd said.

“Wolves do it all the time. It’s even a secret menu item at Starbucks. And who needs a functioning circadian rhythm anyway?”

Boyd just stared at him. “Everyone, actually.”

“What about you security wolves, huh? I know your shifts. You guys don’t get enough sleep either.”

“Wolves don’t need as much sleep,” Derek said, stepping into the kitchen.

His mother said it had something to do with their healing factor, because the basic need for sleep was restorative.

“Hey, if I don't go to sleep, there's never a yesterday.”

 

 

They arrived at Tantum with the morning sun.

Stiles was rifling through his messenger bag, jumping right into work, though he felt like shit. He set his book down on the table. Something in his face changed as his eyes moved to his laptop screen. “You know what the issue is with this world? Everyone wants some magical solution for their problem, and everyone refuses to believe in magic.”

 

Magic was not without cost. Every power invoked had a price. Often times unpredictable, often times negative. People feared it. Feared what they couldn’t understand, mundane or mutant.

 

 

Stiles had sent a subordinate to a high end café down the block.

Jackson was watching him with judgement.

“Let me drink my overpriced coffee in peace, you fucking purist.”

 

 

Stiles was with Altair, Erica, and Deaton hours later on the top floor. ‘Records work’, he’d said.

 

Isaac had gotten back from running errands for Stiles. He had a bag and pulled out a book. “Look what I picked up!”

Derek stared at the book. “Why would you do this?”

“Well, Stiles has his little secret one. And I saw this when I was out wherever and it brought back.” Isaac shrugged. “Shitty nostalgia, I guess.”

Yeah, shitty nostalgia.

“Very funny. Now go back and collect Stiles from upstairs.”

 

Isaac nodded and set the book down, exiting the office.

 

 

Derek picked up the book from the coffee table.

 

The cover depicted a clawed, furry hand with a white human’s hand, cradling the earth in their hands with the title: UNIFYING A WORLD APART.

 

Everyone had read Unifying a World Apart. It was in every classroom. In every school, mixed or mundane or mutant. Derek could recite it with only slight rewording if he really dug down into the depths of his childhood and remembered the voice of his Kindergarten teacher reading every day before nap time like one of those records that if spun backward played some brainwashing message.

There were college level classes, thesis, lectures, entire books and movies- dedicated to this one children’s book created almost fifty _years_ ago.

 

It was focused on the mundane side of history. Though, Derek would’ve liked to see the mutant side.

Though it’d be too graphic for what was supposed to be a children’s book.

 

 

There was a fairy tale picture of green on the first page. Of faeries in the forest and trolls in the mountains. Elves hiding in the brush.

It was contrasted with humans living simple lives in villages. Of sprawling crops and kingdoms and castles.

But then the explorers came.

 

The Old World was pre-1700s. Humans and the supernatural were happy to live apart from each other. In the Old World, paganism was all the rage. And there was magic. The earth was saturated with it.

 

There was a shift in the sixteenth century.

The 1500s were a period of change. An evolution of the relationship between human and mutant.

And not for the better.

The end of the Old World came in the early 1700s. No longer was there freedom for the supernatural. Fear came in decade-long waves.

The humans feared what they could not understand. They feared conquest.

 

_“The time of fae roaming the forests was over. The industrial revolution killed the trees._

_The mer folk were poisoned as humans took to the seas._

_The dragons and beasts with wings were hunted for game._

_The skies no longer belonged to them when the planes came._

_The witches were hunted and burned._

_Never trust a mutant scorned.”_

 

The book warned of what was to come.

 

Centuries of small scale death had fellow mutants keeping their heads down.

_‘War will not come’_ , they told themselves.

 

But tensions rose. People on both sides talked war.

And they talked for three hundred years. Three hundred years of a pot of water simmering to a boil. ‘ _Will they?/ Won’t they’_ , echoed between neighbors.

Human revolution came and went.

But mutant revolution was never accepted.

 

The 1940s came to a close. And with it, the spring became loaded. No one wanted war, they said.

But actions spoke louder.

 

Illegal imprisonment, a biased justice system. Poaching and trafficking was at an all-time high. Book burnings were as common as churches across the United States. Contraband lists were extensive and printed in the morning paper. Mutants were taken at night and never heard from again, their histories erased, disappeared in a black bag.

And they, the mutants, had had enough.

They started organizing secret militias as they collectively felt the noose tighten. Everyone knew something was coming- something their ancestors hundreds of years ago had nearly escaped when the end of the Old World came: extinction by the humans.

The protests started, then riots.

The mutants had started preparing, but the humans had been ready for decades. World governments made their move. Curfews, martial law, police states, the mundane drafts-

Galvanization and militarization.

Us Against Them.

Human Against Mutant.

 

War had come to their shores.

And the enemy was your neighbor.

 

 

Erica, Isaac, and Stiles entered the office, carrying files. They set them on the desk, before Stiles turned to Derek and said, “Are you really reading that? I thought everyone had it memorized.”

“Yeah, but sometimes you look at it and it’s still so surreal, you know?” Isaac answered.

 

The height of the war on mutants began in the early 60s. Mundanes and all of the supernatural clashed.

The Great Razng.

The humans came for the weakest first. Third generations, Class As. Those with physical mutations but no tactical power.

The ones who had been labeled evil were the ones fighting. The lower Classes bared fangs and wielded claws and swords alike to protect the weak.

The monsters were the ones to take the heaviest losses on the front lines. Generations of families wiped out overnight in a hail enchanted bullets.

Public executions were common. Mutant and human families were torn apart, children taken from parents. Taken to detention centers or taken to a mass grave.

If you didn’t fight, you ran. You hid.

The mutant resistance was losing by the end of the 60s.

 

A clan of centaurs fighting against human soldiers. They wielded bows and arrows; the mundanes had guns.

They didn’t stand a chance.

 

_“Monsters came._

_And with them, brought many fears._

_But they were to blame._

_And humans shed tears._

_With magic they fought,_

_havoc they wrought._

_When the monsters came,_

_All hope was lost.”_

 

The pages on the Great Razing depicted shadowed mobs with sharp teeth and red eyes. Fire followed the figures. Human innocents were shown to be huddled in the streets, tears pouring down their faces as the ‘monsters’ came for them, giving the soldiers drawn on the next page no choice but to wage war.

 

The Reformation period lasted throughout the late 70s. The end of the war was in sight. After the peak of violence reached in the Great Razing, something had to give. Mutants and mundanes alike pleaded for the end of the violence. And it came.

Laws were passed, treaties were drawn for fragile peace on both sides. The mutant registry was created. The Class system was enforced.

 

And after so much death and burning, the mutants had no choice but to accept the inevitable. They couldn’t afford a longer war. It was assimilation and acceptance or death.

No one had won, but it was clear mutants had lost more.

 

A Dullahan, the headless rider on a black horse, was depicted gifting its head to a government leader. The mouth was distorted into a Glasgow-esque grin, stretching from ear to ear.

The ultimate sign of trust.

 

Did that happen actually happen when the peace talks were happening?

Probably not.

The Dullahans had been wiped out. And they would have never give their head to a human willingly.

 

 

“Did you guys ever draw over the pages? This was my favorite work of graffiti. I’d do it to every copy in the library. They never caught me, either.” Stiles flipped to the last page of his copy and showed his handiwork.

 

The original picture featured the cover artwork, clawed and human holding the world, fading into a rendition of a white, mundane family at a park picnic. A pregnant wife and husband, with their toddler son between them.

Stiles’ marker-vandalized version had something reptilian bursting out of the mother’s stomach and the family covered in green with large, fang-toothed grins. Complete with copious amounts of blood.

 

“Huh. Tacky,” Erica said, touching the page. “Suits you.”

“Thanks,” Stiles replied, because agreeing irked her more. “I guess the illustrator of this book in the 70s forgot that a mutant can be born from two human parents. Just thought I’d remind everyone of that fact.”

 

Below the family was the phrase that every person on Earth had been conditioned to remember. Like the American Pledge of Allegiance or the words to your country’s national anthem.

It was the propaganda slogan that ended the war. A ‘peace in our time’ call and response.

 

In unison, the betas said, _“’We lived in a world apart but are now brought together. Brothers and sisters, birds of a feather’.”_

Erica feigned a gag. “You guys remember the version muttie kids made up?”

“You mean the single greatest aspect of my elementary school years? You whipped that out, the teachers would have a conniption. _’We lived in a world apart and that’s how it stays._

_It will always be brother against sister, mutants against mundanes’_.”

“That version is way better, even though it’s fucked up when you say it out loud.”

“No more ‘fucked up’ than the original version,” Stiles said, flipping through the book. “ _’Unified in our differences’_ , yeah, OK.”

“ _’Mutants seek your penances’_. Remember that one?”

 

“Aw, I almost forgot about the little chart at the end of the book that tells you about the classes,” Erica said mockingly.

 

There was a place on your ID for your class.

 

Class A were those second or third generation mutants whose only ability was to grow their nails at 2x speed of a human or jump higher than normal. The ones who’d been able to survive the longest and flourish because of their ability to blend in with the humans.

 

Jackson had mentioned that Lydia could get a school visa easily because she was only a Class A.

Not much danger in a Banshee, all they did was scream.

 

Unlisted mutants that were far enough removed from the bloodline and were unlabeled and unspecified- instead of concrete terms and abilities and diagnoses, they just- are unlisted. They're the ones who flew below the radar.

The unlisted mutants on the registry were Class A, only because it took special circumstance to be unlisted.

Human passing, unknown lineage, the mutant who gave them whatever ‘mutational’ gene was dead and or lacked the presence of explicit proof of being any of the other classes.

 

The further you got from ‘A’, the more ‘undesirable’ you were. Getting further down meant a rising of danger and power level. It meant stricter living. The book showed the projected mutant populations for Class type. The edition Erica got was last updated in 2005.

With each Class, the percentage grew lower. A was about 50%, B was about 25%, C was 15%, D 10%, and X was unknown but projected at less than 5%.

 

Class B were the physically mutated. Not powerful, but whose only offense was they couldn’t pass as human.

Humans who underwent surgery to look like some species did not have to be classified. Nor did enhanced animals, that were made in a lab.

But naturally occurring enhanced animals were even classed, as A.

 

Class C were the ones who had carried the weight of words like ‘monster’ and ‘evil’ since the destruction of the Old World. The ones who used to be human were Class C. Even if you were turned illegally or against your will, you were Class C, like turned wolves.

The second generation mutants who’d ancestors had been terrifying and tall: the sirens, the remaining merfolk, chimeras, kitsune, Bies.

 

Class D were the pureblood monsters. Those born with the most power. First generations, directly connected to the mutant bloodline.

Pureblood werewolves. Alphas wolves. The first kitsunes. Vampires, however rare.

Wolves, or any kind of were, had to be on a watch list during the full moon. Any infraction ended in a blackbag or taken to the Farm, the biggest detention center in the US, located in Virginia.

 

The Hale’s were pureblood, among the oldest of wolves. His family had fought in the wars and survived the humans.

Before that, the Hales weren’t just a pack, they were more like a clan. Massive, far-spreading. They’d tried protecting the forest, tried to protect those who species who relied on the moon as much as they did. Always protecting.

But when the Razing came, his mother’s parents and their siblings joined the fight.

It was the monsters that did the fighting. They became the fierce warriors weaker mutants needed.

 

Though most Class Ds weren’t physically mutated, unless they shifted. They were human-passing.

Derek was a Class D but he was never stopped by the police during the week of a full moon, which he recognized as a special kind of privilege. He was in a monster Class, but he didn’t look like a monster.

 

Stiles squinted at the chart. “Hey Derek, your mom ever make you draw a monster?”

“Of course.”

Isaac’s eyebrows knitted together. “What are you guys talking about?”

“It’s something mutant parents do for their kids. ‘ _Draw a monster. Now can you tell me why it’s a monster?’_. Internalized hate and classism, that kind of thing.”

 

Derek’s mother used to say, _‘You’re a predator but you don’t have to be a monster’._

The betas weren’t born wolves so of course they didn’t know about the intricacies of being a mutant since birth.

 

Turning a new wolf without express permission was a Class D offense. That was a ticket straight to the Farm. But Laura had gone back to Beacon Hills anyway to get the pack together.

But John had seen to it to make the betas’ papers, though still Class C, _legal_ Class Cs.

The distinction was night and day.

 

Derek himself had to see about getting his papers in order. He was an illegal alpha, after all.

 

There was one more class. Class X. Either the Old Ones, who’d lived in the flourishing Old World, or the direct descendants, that possessed the powers of one who had lived before the rise of the humans. The rarest, most dangerous, and most sought after. Discovery of X Class resulted in immediate removal to the closest detention center, to then be transferred to some lab for testing. They were the ones who had to really hide or would end up as laboratory ghost or in a black bag. Class X took extinction the hardest, because the oldest tended to be the most obvious- even if they weren’t physically mutated.

Deaton was, undoubtedly, a Class X. The Valkyrie, as well as Moira.

The smallest percentage, the rarest, and somehow in such a short time, Derek had gotten the privilege of meeting a handful.

Altair might’ve even been a Class X, but the jury was still out.

 

Rebuilding the power mutants had once possessed wasn’t easy. The mundanes had covered their bases, and the mutants struggled almost fifty years later.

 

In all the classes were the species that were forced to do something to alter themselves. Dampeners, inhibitor collars, travel bans, imprisonment, glamours- the list went on.

Strict code of what was and was not allowed in public spaces regarding mutants. As well as rigid laws regarding self-defense and assault.

Prisons were overcrowded with mutants whose human counterparts could commit the same crime without serving a sentence. Like a wolf shoplifting food during a full moon.

 

Despite mundies preaching ‘legalities’ involving mutants, people still disappeared like before the Razing. Taken at night for some suspicion whispered to an anonymous tip line by a concerned mundane neighbor ‘just doing their duty’.

Those taken would have their existence erased.

 

The last law protecting certain species from poaching was passed in the early 1990s. People hunted like animals and torn to pieces for spare parts, like an elephant for its ivory. And because of the fetishism some species faced, especially Incubi and Succubi, mutants were the biggest demographic in trafficking rings.

 

Mundanes only cared about the parlor tricks. Sleeping powders, glowing nightlight orbs, cats with leathery wings-

They kept out of anything else, unless it involved humans.

 

The only defining feature on John’s cover of the book was a spiral drawn onto the mundane’s hand, done in Sharpie.

 

The cover pages, illustration pages, the written prologue and epilogue, and the pages of filler- the ‘title’ pages that separated time periods, as well as random mentions of prominent leaders in both Mutant rights and Human rights advocacy, there were about 35 pages in all.

 

Notes were scrawled over the colorful pictures and overlapped the preexisting writing.

It was in code, that much was obvious.

 

The title pages organized the book, from what Derek could tell. He watched Stiles’ fingers dance across the pages.

Next to the chapter page ‘The Reformation Period’ was a series of numbers. So dates, maybe. ‘The Great Razing’ section contained more symbols, so maybe…

Derek didn’t know.

 

“It used to be a game we played when I was a kid. He and my mom were teaching me these codes and we’d leave notes around for each other. And they’d put together scavenger hunts for me. And when it came time for him to need a coding system, we had it covered. Because it’s not just one cipher, it’s a mixture. There are skip codes and some stuff even needs a double-kind of encryption.”

“Complicated.”

 

“Major dates, locations, people, events. You know, the ‘Big Boss’ stuff. So we have different codes, depending on what is being discussed.”

“How do you tell the difference?”

“It’s pretty obvious, if you know what you’re looking at.”

And they did not, in fact, know what they were looking at. A mess of tiny letter and numbers, dispersed with random symbols and glyphs.

Stiles didn’t explain further.

 

 

 

“I need you to do something. Come with me,” Deaton said as he entered Stiles’ office.

Derek nodded to Jackson. “Keep an eye on him.”

Jackson, on the couch, quickly pocketed his phone and nodded back.

Stiles didn’t look up from his laptop. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

 

Derek didn’t ask where they were going or why, as Deaton led him to the fourth floor.

 

In the room was Konstantin and Altair, standing around an envelope.

 

“It came into the office P.O. box this morning. I need you to tell me anything you can about this.” He handed Derek the piece of paper. “Our guy with super-senses is out on another job.”

 

Derek held the paper. “What is this?” After eyeing the first few words, he answered his own question. “A death threat.”

 

Deaton nodded. “This is not, by far, the first death threat Stiles has received. It is, however, his first death threat as the head.”

 

“Emails, phone calls, letters, packages- we’ve seen it all at Tantum.” Konstantin had his arms crossed. “Altair and I handle the tracking.”

 

Altair had a grip on the end of the sabre at his waist. “Assassins tend to fall on their knives, after threatening the head.”

Derek began to read in detail, but Deaton stopped him. “Don’t focus on the contents. Just the physical properties. What does it smell like?”

Derek finished reading anyway and then sniffed the paper. “Strong cologne. Cheap. There’s garlic. A lot of garlic.”

Deaton nodded, picking up his phone and exiting the room, gesturing for Konstantin and Altair to come with him.

 

“Do you need me to handle this?” Derek asked when only Deaton returned.

“For now, Altair and Konstantin will be on it.”

 “This may be an internal issue but we’re still his security team. I’ll get the betas on this. Anything we can do to help.”

Deaton acquiesced. “Of course. In the future, I will make sure to call on your team. Though, that’s possibly the very near future.”

“How many threats does he get?”

“Suffice it to say, I’ve lost count over the years.”

“What are we talking about? Weekly?”

“Try daily.”

“Does he know?”

“No. And he won’t find out. This is a burden we _can_ ease from him.”

 

Derek diverted from script by not asking why he was not made aware of the threats sooner. Too exhausting. It should’ve been expected, at that point.

He would always be kept out of the loop of something.

 

But Deaton was pointedly on script. “This is something of a matter of saving face, so members solely handle the ones who send the threats, which is why I had not involved you. But you’re in this now.”

 

 

 

Stiles slept that night for a couple hours, before getting up and watching videos on his phone. Probably texting his friends because he was stifling his laughter.

Or trying to.

 

 

Erica and Isaac were with Altair on the fourth floor the next day at Tantum. They were dealing were several other letters, threatening Stiles.

In his earpiece, Isaac said, “You were right about mutants playing on another level. These letters are…”

“Disgusting?” Erica finished.

 

It made Derek feel some form of comfort, knowing his team and Stiles’ were dealing with the threats, without Stiles. Deaton was right. It was one less thing for Stiles to have to worry about.

 

 

 

A man walked into the office, escorted by Altair.

 

He was in civilian close, with a ball cap and sunglasses.

He smelled like fire and sulfur.

“Who’s this?” The man asked suspiciously, looking Derek up and down.

“He’s my new bodyguard. You can trust him, Parrish.”

 

A black dog surrounded by fire slept within Parrish.

That was new.

Derek’s own wolf was tilting its head in confusion.

 

Almost immediately, Derek was ignored. "I'm sorry I couldn't make it to the funeral," Parrish said.

 

"Don't sweat it. If you would've showed up at a crime boss' funeral, there would be a lot of speculation." Stiles didn’t say ‘ _Because you’re a mutant’,_ but it was implied.

 

They continued talking. Derek watched them both.

 

“They’re calling him a diversity hire. Half-orc,” Parrish said.

 

There were a lot of orcs in the military. Not the police- that was still a mundy-dominated field. But apparently, orcs were strong and durable enough to be sent overseas. And bloodthirsty enough, with a natural fighting instinct. Or whatever other bullshit the government was spitting out. The Mutant Draft Act, passed in 1971, gave criminal mutants another chance in the military.

 

 

“Who was that?” Isaac asked, when Parrish was gone.

“That was Jordan Parrish. Inside man with the police here.”

“You have an informant in the police department?" Isaac asked.

Stiles gave him a look like, _I_ own _the police department._ “Yeah, he’s a detective. He and my dad started around the same time here, granted in very different positions. He’s a hellhound so he knows what it’s like to be the unwanted mutant among humans. So he helps out when he can. He said he’d continue to help me, even though dad is gone.”

"What are you paying him?"

"Nothing, actually. He just believes in our 'cause’. He’s a mutant police officer, after all."

 

“Why don’t you meet him somewhere instead of him coming here? That’s the usual MO when meeting informants.”

“He’s such a cop in that regard. He only wants to do it here because ‘someone in the community could see him’. I mean, no one here is going to snitch on him, partly because he’s so small fry no one would recognize him, and snitching has unfavorable consequences.”

 

Police coordination between precincts was a nightmare. Parrish must’ve been taking advantage of that, for the sake of the ‘cause’.

 

“We always find the police and the mob working together, huh?”

“Doves and Ravens fly the same,” Stiles said.

Even though one was considered good, and one was considered evil, they still operated the same way in the end, when you got down to it.

Humans and mutants.

Mobsters and the police.

 

"There is so much crime in New York. No one should live here."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Back at the safehouse that night, Stiles texted Konstantin and Altair his address while he hung out in the sitting area across from his and Derek’s room.

A security risk?

Probably. But they were as good as family to him.

He’d put an aloe vera plant on the side table. But it was drooping. Stiles touched a leaf and coaxed it to perk up. _Come on, I know you have it in you._

It flashed an electric green in front of his eyes and sprung up. The life in its roots radiated energy around it. He connected to it. And for a moment, his heart felt lighter.

 

The woods and trees spoke their own language. It was the whispers of the leaves and low growl and soft trample of the wolf.

 

He checked to make sure his stash was safe in the potted plant, under the plastic black container filled with dirt, and upon finding it was, moved to his and Derek’s room, to check that the shading spell under his bed was still safe too.

It was.

 

He genuinely wanted to get plants. But also, lavender did something to the nose of a wolf.

Even an alpha.

 

He’d used the same tricks on his dad.

 

 

Stiles rubbed his eyes and suppressed a yawn.

 

 

Did he know his sleeping habits weren’t sustainable?

Of course.

Did that mean he was going to do anything about it?

Of course not.

 

 

When he was younger, he could only sleep with one pillow. That was his safety blanket, the only thing he could sleep with. Until he was ten and their apartment building was set on fire by a rival while they’d been at the office.

Stiles couldn’t sleep properly for weeks afterwards. But his dad had forgotten about his pillow, too caught up in getting the guy who did it.

It wasn’t until three days of now sleep, when Stiles passed out at the dinner table, did his dad remember.

 

Stiles liked to think he was past that. Past the sleeping issues, past the nightmares and sleepwalking. Past the nights of waking up with marks or not in his room, feet torn up from walking somewhere.

 

But that was just self-delusion on his part. And he knew it. Yet it seemed impossible to deal with it by himself.

 

“Stiles?” It was Isaac. He was looking at him with barely repressed concern, standing with a hand on the doorframe of his and Jackson’s room. “You were just standing and staring, are you OK?”

Stiles blinked once and shrugged. “If you see me standing there doing nothing, I’m thinking about how much it would hurt and how I’d land if I stopped using all my muscles.”

Isaac’s face relaxed and he scoffed, ducking back into his room.

 

In loneliness, the lonely one eats himself. In a crowd, the many eat him. Now choose.

Friedrich Nietzsche could suck a fat one, but he got some things right.

 

 

 

Derek listened to the exchange from the living room.

 

Stiles spouted his bullshit, which Stiles knew would not register as a lie because he must’ve actually contemplated it all the time, which successfully got Isaac off his case.

But Derek knew better.

 

Derek was off during the night. He’d be sleeping, even if Stiles didn’t.

He would crash again, soon enough.

 

Jackson, from his place across Derek on one of the chairs, set down his phone on the coffee table. “Two nights ago, Stiles told me that even if Germany bails out the euro, there could still be a worldwide depression.”

Derek looked at Jackson.

He shook his head. “Like, what the hell kind of test tube did this kid walk out of? Kid’s smart, but he needs to keep things to himself. I stared at the ceiling for three hours after that.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Derek was on a run.

Stiles had been awake when he left, which earned him a glare. Stiles looked at the time on his phone. Six in the morning. He took the opportunity for a quick shower. Then his daily ritual of standing in the mirror and wondering if the Lichtenburg figure was still there (it was).

 

His heart had been aching more than it had since the night of the funeral. He’d become a souvenir of someone else’s kill.

And like the ocean, he was changing from calm one moment to raging sickness the next.

 

He wished that when he was a kid, someone would have told him there would be so many wars to win.

 

He threw on a flannel.

 

It’s not that he wanted a lighter burden, though that’d be nice, it’s that he want broader shoulders, to handle what life was throwing at him.

 

He stared at his eyes in the mirror. One was a dull blue, the other grey.

 

He’d bury his father’s memories in the garden. He’d watch them grow with the flowers in the spring.

 

Sometimes he told himself that he was OK. He repeated it, like a mantra. ‘I’m OK, I’m OK’.

Because he was afraid if he stopped, he would drown in all of the reasons he was not.

 

What he could to, to quell the ache in his chest because of the weight of his burdens, was distract himself with someone else’s.

 

Derek apparently was entitled to all of Stiles’ business, but it didn’t work both ways.

So he resorted to other methods.

 

 

“Hey, Erica, light of my life, can I ask you a question?” Stiles asked her. She and Boyd were in the security room on-duty, monitoring cameras and mooning over each other.

But mostly mooning over each other.

“No.”

“Well, I’m going to anyway. It’s about Derek.”

She spun to face him in her swivel chair. He thought he had them cornered, but with her smirk, it felt the other way around. “Why don’t you just ask him yourself, then?”

“That would be a _fantastic_ idea. Just ask Derek, why didn’t I think of that?”

“Is this amount of sarcasm necessary?”

“Necessary? No. But I do like it.”

 

“And he gets on my case. Does Derek ever sleep?”

“I think he periodically makes a whirring noise and then shuts down,” Boyd said, back still turned to Stiles.

“Did you just make a joke, Boyd?” Boyd, who rivaled Derek’s own silent nature.

No response.

That was OK, Stiles was getting off track. “How was Mexico?”

Erica turned back to her own screen. “Hot,” was all she said.

Stiles narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips. “You know what I meant.”

 

“What was Laura like?”

Erica and Boyd, in tandem, looked at each other.

 

He knew they would talk to him. About her.

He knew they were missing her and that they couldn’t talk to their alpha.

He should’ve felt some shame, preying upon them in their weakness, but he needed to know more. And if it helped them to talk about her too, then that was the OK for a go-ahead in Stiles’ mind.

He couldn’t help his manipulative side, it was second nature.

 

Erica talked first. “Derek and her were similar in a lot of ways.”

“But very different,” Boyd said.

Erica nodded. “Both had bad tempers, but where Derek burns like a forest fire, she burned cold.”

 

“She was better with the clients, because she had that balance between being a person and bodyguard. And she was good at both.”

 

From what Stiles gathered, she was a natural leader, where Derek had to work a little harder for it. She knew when to quit, when to keep going, which is what made her so good with people.

She was the who kicked their asses but also knew when they needed support and encouragement.

 

“All of their differences were really from the way the siblings handled their emotions, mainly anger. And because anger was Derek’s anchor, it was a huge part of his life.”

“They were fiercely protective of each other.”

“She kept Peter and Derek from tearing at each other’s throats.”

“And from what I’d heard, Laura was so much like Talia- a great alpha.”

She talked with equal parts fondness and sadness. “She was the one who could get Derek to smile and loosen up- more than anyone else. She could get him out of his head- whether that be forced hugs or surprise fighting session or giving him a verbal tongue lashing. They were close. And as much as it hurt us, because she gave us the Bite, her loss got to him the most.”

 

“She completed her mission but there were other shooters we didn’t know about. That’s why we were in Mexico.”

“Did you find her?” Her body.

Erica swallowed hard, turning away. “Part of her. Derek buried her there.”

 

Stiles knew what they danced around.

Derek being feral in Mexico.

And Stiles knew it was extraordinary that in the span of six months, living as a feral wolf after his sister dying and becoming an alpha (a full form alpha, to boot), it was extraordinary that Derek was able to come back from that brink, come back to humanity.

 

Yeah, the dude had control issues and no anchor.

But he was alive.

 

“Who were you hunting?”

“They were hunting us. Old blood hunting family. But they went underground, trail dead.”

“Why’d you come back?”

“It was Derek. He came back to us. And so we left.”

Stiles could see it. See Derek waking up, tired and hopeless.

 

 

He left Erica and Boyd soon after.

Stiles picked up his work phone and dialed a number, before Derek was back from his run. “Altair, is Graeme back from San Jose?”

“Not yet. Another week or so.”

“OK. I have another job for her.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Derek missed the simplicity of being a wolf and acting on animal instinct.

The wind in your fur, blood from the last hunt in your teeth, there was no room for thought. Pure instinct, action and reaction.

But he didn’t let himself think those thoughts too often, just when he was in bed at night, his skin feeling too tight around his bones, a clawing in his chest to _let go_. Only then did he indulge.

 His mom always said, _‘if the time comes when you wish to cast aside your humanity and feed yourself to the wolf, it is already too late’._

And Derek thought himself a lost cause in many ways, but he didn’t want to go out like those pitiful wolves killed on the news, after losing themselves to the inner beast and going past that brink, never to come back. Lost in themselves, until a bullet was considered a kindness.

 

Later on that day at the office, Stiles received an email.

Derek was sitting on one of the couches, iPad in his lap, scrolling through some of the security feed.

He knew Stiles was bugging out but he was not going to say anything because with Stiles, sometimes pointing things out in a moment of extreme emotion, was counterproductive.

 

Stiles had ear buds in, music playing.

“I’m the violence in the pouring rain. I’m a hurricane…”

His leg bounced relentlessly. The computer pinged again.

He typed something on his phone and stared at that for a couple of minutes.

Stiles put a hand over his eyes, rubbing his forehead.

 

He ripped out his ear buds and rolled the chair backwards to stand up in one frustrated and fluid motion. “Hey, I need some air.” Then, without waiting for any kind of response, he was walking out the door.

 

The possibility of a looming panic attack was what had Derek following Stiles.

 

But he wasn’t going for the elevator. He went for the stairs, heading up instead of down.

 

“Stiles?”

 

“You can’t get to the roof from the elevator,” he said, by way of explanation. He was jumping the stairs ahead of Derek.

The roof. A wide open space. A sea of buildings surrounding them, unprotected. “I can’t let

you-”

 

“If you say something about security, I will kick you.” He opened another door as they reached the top. “I’m going whether you like it or not. So stay or go.”

It was a choice between going or Stiles having a panic attack, which wasn’t much of a choice at all. He followed Stiles.

Wherever he went, he was his shadow.

 

Over the mic, Derek said, “Heading to the roof. Watch the stairs, Isaac.”

It was impossible to tell how big exactly a building was, before seeing the roof. When halls and rooms were taken away and the true scope of a building could be seen.

The roof was what he’d expected it to look like, and at the same time, not at all. There was the door they’d walked out of, and exhaust pipes, various industrial fans and vents. Some translucent sky lights peaked out from the ground where they shone through on the top floor. That was the normal for roofs.

Opening the door, there was another step. A wooden step, which meant the whole roof was another foot or so taller, with the added scenery and landscaping.

 

There were more runes on the roof, more spirals, carved into wood and stone. And there were plants. Everywhere. Lemon grass and lavender. Ivy vines and mint and lamb’s ear.

 

The trees created a kind of privacy wall against three sides of the building. It was testament to how large Tantum actually was, for the foliage on top of the building to not be seen from the street below. All of the plants helped to muffle traffic and the sounds of the city- though not drown them out completely. The other side was lined with more tall plants, along with trellises, under which were sitting areas.

 

Derek didn’t know a lot about plants. But it must’ve been the wrong time of year for half the plants.

Suspicious.

 

"My dad actually had to do crazy renovations up here just to make the roof sustainable. But he did it, because it was important to him."

 

Bird baths from dark stone. There were small birds chirping happily, splashing in the water. There were more birds swarmed around feeders. At least there weren’t squirrels. Derek’s mom had taken to feeding the birds but would always complain about the squirrels eating the seed. Some were clear, with red liquid for humming birds. Derek hadn’t known that they were native to New York. Then again, he wasn’t an ornithologist. And a lot of the things on the roof didn't look like they belonged in that region.

 

“Do you grow any poisonous herbs up here?”

“My dad didn’t let me go that far. Well, not exactly. We have stuff that borders on bad. Deaton handles the heavy lifting, somewhere in a secret garden. I say secret but it's actually in his basement.” Stiles paused, looking up and staring straight ahead. "Pretend I didn't say that- I can offer you some Witch Hazel. It's a great anti-inflammatory. Or how about some valarian root. It promotes sleep."

 

The sounds of the city blended with the sounds of nature. Cars honking and birds chirping. Sirens in the distance, the beat of a butterfly’s wings.

 

The tang of citrus and pollen. Of sugar and flowers. It smelled like damp wood and rust. It smelled like life. The smells of the city were washed away.

 

Rustic looking fire pits and outdoor furniture, tables and folding umbrellas. Chairs, tables, all wooden- all looking like they belonged there. Among the green. Above ground, wooden platform gardens with mossy stones. Trellises woven with ivy. Water spigots, fashioned in brass to blend in with the scenery, sprouted from the ground intermittently. The ground itself was a patchwork of soft, ridiculously green moss and grass, transitioned into worn brick, complete with moss covered grout, serving as a maze of pathways. The seating areas were on elevated wooden platforms, which descended and ascended with wooden platform stairs, into for seating areas. Each level’s edge lined with ivy tangled trellises and potted plants.

 

"My mom was like a hippie, too. And she was plant crazy. It was a year or two after coming here though that my dad picked gardening and stuff back up- or rather, made me. He'd missed plant life. I guess it kind of reminded him of my mom too, and everything from before."

 

His mom was a hippie too, and if she and Claudia had known each other, they probably gushed about plants.

 

There were even butterflies fluttering around them. Butterflies. And birds chirping. There were some things just too good to be real, and the rooftop garden was one of them. Especially considering where they were. On top of Crime Syndicate HQ.

It was so picturesque Derek was tempted to walk back through the door and walk out again to see if the scene before him changed.

 

 

The look on Stiles’ face was one of peace. Contentedness. He radiated peace. And for the first time, Derek felt like he was truly seeing him. He was always stressed, anxious. Sad, grief stricken.

But there, among the plants and birds, he was truly himself.

 

There was a small smile as he cooed at the birds, like he’d done with the stray cats.

 

And Derek felt like every judgement, every assumption he’d made about Stiles was wrong. There, on the roof, he felt like he didn't know Stiles at all.

And he desperately wanted to, if only to see that peaceful expression more.

 

Stiles had stood on the balcony, back on the mainland after the funeral, and his pain had been spilling. Under the stars and the rain, Stiles was spilling. All that pain…

It was different now. The complete opposite.

 

And it was a beautiful thing to witness. His smell, his genuine smile. The green overtaking his eyes. Derek committed him to memory.

 

"It's called sensory overload. A touch is a blow. A noise is a deafening sound. Happens a lot- especially with anxiety. Everything just gets to be too much.” Stiles let out a steady breath. “So I come up here to smoke and just breathe. Because it’s kind of hard to, everywhere else.”

 

Part of the reason the plants at the safe house had been so important to him, Derek guessed. They provided comfort for him. Whether that was because the life they surrounded them with or the fact it was something him and his parents did together.

 

“At least it’s fresh air, I mean, as fresh as Manhattan, it’s like breathing in concentrated garbage but it’s better than being in there.” Stiles threw a thumb towards the door.

 

Derek looked around. “Do you have a favorite?”

“Not supposed to have favorites. But, I suppose, if I had to choose- it would be the unloved. The ones that gather dust and are full of holes. Unlooked upon. The unloved creatures of the night. The poisonous, the ugly. The ones people think are dead, but the ones I bring back.”

 

A pigeon landed on the railing they were leaning against. It cooed.

Stiles cooed back.

“You know pigeons are just sky rats?” Derek side eyed the bird, who was side eyeing him back. “And they’re stupid.”

Stiles was using his knuckle to scratch along the bird’s neck. "I used to get corvids to bring me stuff in exchange for pistachios. Buttons, coins, that kind of thing. I could never get the pigeons to obey like that. They are _really_ stupid birds."

Why should Derek even be surprised that Stiles trained crows. He already had the bees under his control somehow.

 

“My dad used to say the same thing. But he liked feeding them. He liked coming up here. What we do isn’t very fun. Or uplifting most of the time. And he loved plants but had a black thumb so I made sure to keep it nice up here, for when he needed a break.”

 

“Do you need a break?” Derek asked. Not just a brief reprieve on the roof.

Stiles shook his head. “No, see, it’s like, whatever you’re scared of, push yourself into it. That’s what I was raised with, that’s what I’m trying to do. It was like the first time I ever flew on a plane. When dad said we were moving to New York, after mom was killed. I remember lying awake in bed the night before, exploring this sensation of ‘what if the engines fail?’ Those last few minutes where you just know. You’re not gonna pass out, they have oxygen masks for that, so you’re gonna be wide awake as the plane falls from the sky. So, if that happens, what do I do? Do I close my eyes? Do I look at my dad?”

Stiles was eight years old when that happened. Eight years old and facing his own mortality.

“‘Hopefully’, I thought, ‘it would be quick’. Like, ‘lights out’. I fucking hoped it would be quick. And then I was like, ‘well, if I have to do this, let’s pretend there’s no way anything could go wrong’. Just really embrace it and fly in that plane and have a good time.” He shook his head, there was a shadow of a smile. “I even looked up the statistics for it online the next morning, before boarding. It’s like one fatal crash per 11 million flights. A 0.00000009% chance of us dying in a fiery tragedy. So I figured our odds were pretty good.”

 

With that mentality, a lot of Stiles’ life choices made sense. Even though he didn’t want to do this, didn’t want succession and now has people trying to kill him for it, is not halfassing the legacy his father passed on to him.

 

“Some of the guys here have stories, you know? There’s that saying ‘it takes a village’ and there was a lot of stuff my dad had to leave to his subordinates. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a raging chimera mobster giggle when a butterfly landed on his hand but let me tell you, it’s a sight that will change your perception of everyone around you.”

 

“Like babysitting a hyperactive little kid?”

“Yeah. But it was cool. Because if an eight year old hands you a flower, that he grew and picked himself, you are obligated to keep it in your hair, where he put it. All day. Barring job status and title.”

“I’m sure they were never bored.”

“Yeah.” Stiles rubbed the back of his neck. “A lot of them are dead now.”

“I saw something when I was young, probably too young. So like, a synapse was created in my brain where I still think about it, sometimes. I saw someone die when I was eleven. Me and Scott at my dad’s computer on LiveLeak doesn’t compare to the real thing.” Derek waited for him to continue. “It happened here. The first person I’d ever seen die. And they died protecting my dad. He got shot in the shoulder. It was then, that I learned death and sacrifice are always so intertwined.” He shook his head. "It was one moment. Only the sound of skull hitting cement and bullets ringing. And my dad's voice was there, echoing in my ears. 'Don't look away. Don't let any emotion show on your face. Those standing above don't show their trembling. You can say what you pity and regret in your grave, after your death. Can you do that?' I remember it so clearly. And always will.”

 

That was one way to get a child to understand death. And the heavy impact it had in the underworld.

That Stiles was important and people would try to kill him because of that fact.

And people would die for him.

 

"You're afraid of more people dying for you?”

 

But also, to let Stiles know their deaths were not in vain.

No crying, or weeping. They didn't sacrifice themselves to be mourned in such a way.

‘Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there, I do not speak.’

 

And it was agonizing for Stiles. Because he loved his father, and he didn't want to disappoint him.

 

Stiles nodded, eyes so grey they were reflecting the skyline like mirrors. “My dad, my mom, all these people who sacrificed themselves to protect- It’s hard. Because you don’t want to abandon them. It’s hard to live, being where my father sat, knowing if you continue sitting there, others will be because of you. Die _for_ you.”

 

"It's scary, you know? Being where he sat. Doing the things he did, even if it's all temporary. It's a lot to live up to- and I know I can't. I can't be as good as he was and I know that. So it's just scary, continuing where he left off."

 

“John was someone people would die for. He was someone who made people trust him with their lives.” Quieter, Stiles said, “And their deaths.”

 

The human mobs had a saying: _‘You work for the devil, you better be ready to die for him’._

 

“And you’re afraid you don’t have what he did.” Had. Had what it took to inspire that kind of trust and confidence in the syndicate.

 

It was a living legacy that John left for Stiles. His legacy, of the syndicate and the flag he sore under, of the people he commanded and the reason he took up arms in the first place.

 

Derek thought back to their previous talks. Maybe it went beyond a nonexistent sense of self-preservation.

 

Unafraid to die, deep down, maybe wishing to die.

Derek needs to talk more about Stiles’ weird thing with death.

He was clearly afraid, or was he? Derek knew he had fear of it, but of what aspect of dying, Derek didn’t know.

One thing was clear, Stiles’ relationship with his own death was complicated. Which wasn’t something Derek was used to in a client. He was usually hired by said client because they were afraid of death- i.e., someone killing them. That was his entire job.

But Stiles wasn’t as cut and dry and Derek didn’t know why.

 

“You can't just buy loyalty. If a boss’ followers are just paid to be there, they're not willing to risk their lives. And if that boss is killed, the gang ceases to exist and all you have is a hoard of disorganized thugs. Loyalty is a complicated thing.”

 

Hiring out of private security was a tricky thing. Sometimes, self-preservation kicks in when you were protecting a stranger for money.

 

“I mean, it’s crazy, right? Being willing to die for a stranger.”

 

And Derek understood what this was about. Like the first time they’d met, Stiles spoke of Derek breaking the contract. But now, in a more underhanded way.

 

The thing with Hale Security contracts, there were really only four ways to terminate a contract. Of course, there stipulations that could cause a voided contract- either by Hale Security or the client.

1) Complete the contract.

2) Hale Security’s employees die.

3) The client is killed (at which point a whole other host of problems were brought up).

4) The threat which caused the contract to be made, has been eliminated before the contract is over.

 

There was technically a fifth option, was the security team backing out for reasons like assault/ something about lying in the initial contract or leaving things out, or when Laura was alpha, inappropriate interactions with clients. Protection worked both ways.

They reserved the right, in that case, to pull out. But they had never done that.

Nor had they ever lost a client.

 

There were more ways for them to handle the contract.

 

There was no ‘firing’. No ‘you won’t let me go out to see my mistress so you’re gone’. It was designed like that. Mundy gangsters really liked the idea of having a bodyguard to watch the door while they were doing business. Didn’t really like the actual practice when Derek had interrupt a ‘conjugal’ when there was screaming (of what he learned was pleasure, not pain) and or/ a mass amount of crystal meth involved.

 

That basically meant, if Derek were to slap a needle out of someone’s hand, they couldn’t fire him. It was his job to protect.

Whether that be from an assassin or themselves.

 

“That may be true of your subordinates. But we're not. We're choosing to be here, choosing to risk our lives to protect yours.”

“You're hopeless you know. How do you expect to live a full life.”

They looked at each other and Stiles laughed.

Derek allowed a smile.

 

Because they both knew living to old age wouldn't be an option for them. 

 

Derek was beginning to realize that he didn’t know Stiles at all. Or rather, he had known a part of him and assumed it was all of him.

The Stiles who snuck out to party was the same Stiles who -did something kind- and that match didn’t quite compute.

The presence of new information meant adapting the original hypothesis.

 

People acted according to how they experienced the world. If you could understand their experience, you could understand their behavior.

 

_‘I used to think death was the greatest sacrifice but I realize now that death is kind. The real test is in living with the glory and all of its consequences. The real test is not the battle but the aftermath’,_ Stiles had said, after the funeral.

 

The problem with surviving was that you were the one to end up with the ghosts of everyone you left behind. They rode on your shoulders, weighing down every step.

 

Derek rubbed the lambs ear between his fingers. “Thank you for sharing with me.” _Sharing something so private._

Stiles’ face was an uneven red as he turned away. "We're having a meeting soon. All the heads and I. And their people. Gerard and Chris are back from Boston and they’re adamant. I've been trying to put it off, just handle everything but there are too many things to address. And this'll be the first meeting with _me_ being the boss." He took a shuddering breath in. "And I'm terrified."

 

“University. Somewhere far away from here. Pretty underwhelming for a mobster, I know. But I want the change. I applied to a lot of places and when I get in, I can really get out of here.”

 

Stiles going to college after being freed from his heirdom and succession and being a nobody seemed to be the best thing for him. No one knowing where he had come from, what he’d done or had to do. 

 

“What do you want to do?”

“I used to want to be in law enforcement, but that kind of changed when I grew up. Something in business, maybe tech. I don’t know, but I have time to figure it out. What about you? Is this what you want to do forever?”

Derek was silent. Unsure.

“You don’t know?” Stiles asked.

“I have time to figure that out.” Derek thought a moment. “What do you want most?”

“Freedom,” Stiles answered immediately.

Derek tried to formulate an eloquent response. Coming up short, he said, “That’s not really an option right now.”

 

Stiles’ eyes were far away. “I just remember the Pacific ocean from when I was a kid and- it’s just so different. Standing there at night, with my mom. And it’s like this tangible thing with an impossibly distant horizon. It’s a ceaseless void that cares for nothing. And it could take you away and no one would know so I think there’s this respect you have to have for something so capable of neutral destruction.”

 

Derek felt like he was being swept up in Stiles’ storm.

He remembered driving with friends to be on the beach at night, and understood what Stiles talked about. Only, he pretended not to.

 

“You can’t really do that here, it’s not as fun. Too many lights and sounds, kind of interrupts the experience.”

“And you’d get hepatitis from trying to swim in the water,” Derek said.

 

“You know what else I want? A huge backyard with trees. And a swing.”

“Are you five?”

“Shut up. You miss it too, right? Having-” He waved a hand around. “-space? Nature. Fresh, open air?”

How could he not.

 

 

Stiles stepped past him to get to the door back inside. Close enough that Derek could smell him. Smell that sharp tang of lightning and herbs from the roof.

 

Stiles walked in front of him and put his wallet to the sensor, opening the door. But before Derek could step out after him, Stiles closed the door in his face.

“Very funny,” Derek said aloud. He patted his pockets and it was gone.

His badge was gone.

 

Derek didn’t even realize when-

Stiles brushed passed him earlier, on the way to the door.

Was this in retaliation for the ‘are you five?’ quip.

“Dance for me, monkey,” Stiles said, from behind the door.

Undoubtedly.

“You can’t even see me.”

“I can imagine. Dance, if you want to come in.”

 

He could’ve said something like ‘ _I am’_ and Stiles would probably open the door to check but Derek was having none of it. Instead, he raised his hand to his ear. Into the mic, he said, “Isaac, I need help on the roof. Come up here and we can kick Stiles’ ass together.”

 

Derek imagined Stiles’ expression as he conceded defeat with a loud, “Fine, fine. You’re such a sourwolf,” and opened the door.

 

 

 

That night, Stiles had a nightmare.

 

Derek had heard it coming, had got up from his bed and walked to Stiles’. He crouched down, at his side.

 

Stiles sat up and threw his arms around Derek, crying and trembling.

Derek froze. Maybe Stiles thought he was someone else-

Fuck it.

He wrapped his arms around Stiles’ shaking shoulders and squeezed him back.

“It’s OK, Stiles. It’s OK,” Derek repeated over and over.

 

For a long moment, they didn’t move, until Stiles slipped into a dreamless sleep against Derek’s chest.

It was the first time Derek had hugged someone so fiercely and thought, ‘I want to protect with everything I have’.

Derek didn’t mention it to Stiles, because in the absence of embarrassment and avoidance the next morning, he assumed he didn’t remember.

So Derek let it go.

 

Stiles wasn’t even sure if it’d been a dream. It had felt so real- being held. Feeling _safe_. His father being alive. Bloody and hurt, but alive.

‘I’m not leaving, OK? Not again’, he’d said, hugging Stiles as he did when he was younger.

 

But he was not a child and this was not his father’s broken skin.

It was like riding a bike or throwing a punch; the body never forgot. The muscle-memory of him, in those early days, when his father would come home bruised and bloodied and would have Stiles bring him alcohol and the med kit.

He remembered the smell, of the Jack and the blood. The feeling of the cold compress as he tried to help his dad, as much as a child could.

 

Relive, replay, each day there was a guilt he couldn’t shake, like a ghost that wouldn’t wash off his skin.

It still came back.

 

He listened to the betas talk about Beacon Hills. About their lives before Laura.

The general consensus was ‘fuck Beacon Hills’.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles, without being able to rely on his friends, started pestering the betas.

Derek knew they don’t mind it too much because Stiles was such a change of pace to what they were used to. Even their ‘friendliest’ clients, who fell into the category of treating them like people, were still not even close to the level Stiles treated them.

Sure, they all annoyed each other. But there was something secure, comforting even, about a client like Stiles.

 

Generally, a bond of any kind was not supposed to form- which was easier on some contracts than others. Stiles grew on you, annoyance and all.

If all of them started getting too comfortable, Derek would call a meeting. But for now, he’d let everyone continue.

It provided a distraction for Stiles, whose inability to see his friends regularly would contribute to more insubordination, as well as the pack’s dissatisfaction and overall low morale. But Stiles’ presence had helped that, in Laura’s absence.

Stiles was in a position of power but never abused it. ‘Powerful men don’t have to be cruel’ Stiles had said once, about his dad’s philosophy. Letting Derek berate him and banter with him, that was one thing. But his betas poked fun and he took it all in stride. Derek had seen mundy bosses take hands for less. Stiles was not a mob boss. He was kind, genuine. John, apparently, had been the same. It was baffling. How could someone like that build an even bigger empire than that of their predecessor, who he killed with his bare hands?

 

“Do you think our moms had like, lunch dates? And talked about magic?”

“I don’t know.” But, of course, the conversation couldn’t end there.

Stiles tapped a pencil against his leg in a repetitive beat. “You think Peter would know?”

“Probably not.” After a moment, when Derek followed Stiles’ next question before the teen could ask it, answered: “And I’m not asking him.”

“Then I’ll ask him.” Stiles went for Derek’s phone on the end table. Derek saw the move coming and snatched it out of the way, pocketing it.

“We’re not bringing him into this.”

“You mean _you_ don’t want to bring him into this.”

 

 

 

Deaton refused to make Stiles go into the office on the weekends, even though he was always ‘on call’. And would have to deal with any ‘emergency’ that came up, as was the boss’ job-unless he can pawn it off on someone else.

There weren’t any particularly pressing movements happening in the syndicate until the head meeting, so the weekend was theirs.

Stiles went to the house that Friday and after harassing Derek, laid down in their room. Not to sleep, just hovering at the edge for a very long time, occasionally on his phone.

 

 

 

Derek watched the betas fight. Jackson had Isaac in a hold, which he got out of quickly.

 

He made them fight, to avoid stagnation or going stir crazy. They sparred regularly.

 

“You can stop,” Derek yelled.

 

 

They headed inside, drinking from water bottles. It was going to be too cold out soon, even for a wolf, and they’d have to use the Tantum gyms.

 

 

Derek was in sweatpants and a tank top.

The air felt good on his bare skin.

 

Stiles had not mentioned the approaching meeting again, though internally he must’ve been losing his mind with the thought of failure or ridicule.

Derek was about halfway through his set of crunches when Stiles came through the sliding glass door.

 

Just to see Stiles flustered, Derek asked, “Are you checking me out?”

 

Stiles had too much of a sleep deprivation hangover and lack of filter to react in the way a normal person would. “No? Uh… yeah?”

 

Stiles was wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants, his feet bare. “You know what they say about training alone and cementing errors.”

“You want to fight me?” Derek asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Wasn't suggesting I train with you, just making an observation.”

Derek dipped his chin and shook his head. He loomed back at Stiles and smiled.  

Too late.

 

"Gotta maintain the bod, right? Don’t mind me.” He sat in one of the odor chairs, pulling his knees up to his chest. “It’s a little cold for you to just be out here with no jacket.” It was almost October.

“I could say the same thing to you.” When Derek just stared at him, he amended, “Right. Werewolf heating. See, thing is, I can _hear_ Boyd and Erica mooning over each other. And Jackson is on the phone with Lydia which is just- ugh. And Isaac is smiling at his phone with a gross kind of air about him. I can’t right now, with your wolves. The vibe in there is too much.”

And Derek allowed himself a half laugh.

“It’s really not funny,” Stiles said, though he was smirking.

“That’s what I have to deal with.” Though, Isaac was new. Didn’t think he was talking to anyone.

 

“Deaton mentioned you’d taken self-defense classes when you were younger,” Derek asked.

“Did he mention how I’m terrible at defending myself?”

Derek stood, stretching his arms above his head. “No, but I already knew that through my own observations. And I know you have a knife but can't exactly use it. Properly." He’d seem him drop it one too many times. “Want to practice?”

 

Stiles stood up and looked around. “You know, I used to play lacrosse at my last school.”

“How good were you?”

“Didn’t say I was good at it.”

 

Stiles lifted his pant leg up and removed the knife, tossing it into the grass.

 

Derek flipped him on his stomach, bending Stiles’ arm against his back, face pressed into the ground.

Derek loomed over him, not hurting him, just pinning him-

 

His wolf paced around the two of them in a circle, tail swaying lazily.

“Say uncle, bitch!” Even though Derek was the one pinning him.

Stiles struggled but quickly gave up. "Enjoying the view?” Stiles asked, words partly garbled into the ground.

Derek adjusted his hold, knee not pressing so hard into Stiles’ spine. “I’m not hating it.”

 

Derek put his nose closer to the junction where Stiles’ neck met his shoulder.

His wolf really wanted to keep him face down on the ground and fully stick his nose into Stiles’ neck.

 

Derek subconsciously held on longer to touch his body, flipping him over, and helping him up.

 

Stiles had lost a few pounds. He smelled like lightning, exhausted and fried. Even his lungs sounded tired.

 

“Any other ideas?”

“Thinking about punching you in the face.”

Stiles paused, then- “Those threats really don’t do it for me, Der. You’re a dick of a bodyguard but you wouldn’t hurt me like that-”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What? A ‘dick’? Or ‘Der’.”

Derek swiped for his stomach, to pin him in a flying tackle. He thought better of it last minute and swatted him instead.

Stiles backed up, breathlessly laughing.

 

Derek could smell his arousal.

 

 

 

That night, as Stiles sat in the living room, Isaac said, "Isn't this something like day three without real sleep? Flying a little close to the sun, don't you think?"

He looked at Isaac tiredly and yawned. "I’m savoring my youth."

 

 

 

Stiles dressed into his pajamas as Derek was in bed. But he wasn’t in the bathroom, he just tiredly pulled his shirt over his head and threw it to the ground in his constant quest for a floordrobe.

 

 

It was cold on the roof of Tantum the next night. They were waiting for the betas to pull the cars around as Peter talked to Derek on the phone.

 

Derek was half-listening to Peter bitching, half-watching Stiles standing under an awning.

He had a pill bottle in his hand, Derek could hear it.

 

But when Stiles saw Derek looking, he hurriedly put the bottle behind his back.

Suspicious.

 

Derek turned around, told Peter he had to go, and took a centering breath.

“What’d you just do?” Derek asked, turning back to face Stiles.

Stiles shook his head, mouth pressed in a line. “Nothing.”

“Yes, you did. I just saw you with a bottle. Why are you lying?”

 

Stiles’ hand was behind his back. Derek took a step towards him, hand reaching out to forcibly take the bottle.

Instead, Stiles back stepped and ran around the chairs, until the table separated him and Derek.

 

Derek stepped right just as Stiles dodged left.

 

Derek was legitimately trying to chase him, keeping his face neutral, and feigning calm. “Stiles,” he said.

 

And Stiles was fucking smiling.

 

 

Derek seethed- fuck, how far had he fallen? He was actually playing goose with a teenage mobster. What was even worse, was that Stiles was actually really good at faking certain directions

He was laughing in a breathless, panicked way. Like, ‘if he gets a hold of me, I’m really fucking dead’.

 

Laura would either kill him for being an idiot or joining Stiles in how ridiculous it was. He was glad Peter was on another continent.

 

 

Erica was back on the roof. “Um, what are you doing?” Derek turned to her, as Stiles remained across the table.

Derek looked back at him, placing a hand on his hip, most definitely not out of breath, and said, “Nothing. And Stiles, get your ass over here.”

 

Stiles, smile plastered across his face, had apparently decided he was done and walked past Derek, handing him the pill bottle as he passed.  

 

It was allergy medicine. Derek gripped the bottle and glared at Stiles’ back.

He’d been like a dog with an owner playing keep away.

 

Derek could stop him from sneaking out and possibly getting himself killed. But he couldn't stop the teen from the stupid shit he did as some desperate coping mechanism.

 

His authority came from Deaton. Who was paying him and opened the contract in the first place. Who was Stiles' god father; the man who was his guardian. He had permission to intervene in any situation he deemed necessary. With assurance by Deaton that he could talk to him any way he wanted. Which put him in a weird position.

Though Stiles didn't seem to mind.

 

It was half past eleven as Derek sat downstairs with a bottle of Gatorade and The Prince. He tuned into what Stiles was doing and was not happy.

 

It was looking like another night of energy drinks and Netflix binges. But Derek was not having it.  

 

Derek stood outside their door, arms crossed, wondering how to proceed.

Derek knew the obvious no-go was bringing up the Event from days ago, bringing up how he had hugged Stiles until he fell asleep.

Stiles’ mortification would only serve to rile him up more so that secret would be kept to himself.

 

He walked into the room.

 

 

Stiles was face down into a pillow, laptop abandoned, obviously hearing Derek come up the stairs.

Derek went over to stand by his bed, looking down at him. He crossed his arms and said, “I know you’re not asleep.”

Stiles’ muffled voice answered him. “Shh, yes I am.”

Derek exhaled. “You know, even I sleep.”

Stiles put his head up and squinted at Derek. “When?”

“When you’re not looking.”

 

Stiles sat up, the charade over. He picked his laptop up from the floor.

 

It was like Ondine’s curse. A faerie named Ondine cursed to die if he ever fell asleep.

 

"I have a problem," Derek said, sitting at the edge of his own bed.

With eyes focused hazily on his laptop screen, Stiles said: "If this is about the stick up your ass, I'm afraid no one is strong enough to pull that out."

 

Derek said nothing. Just nodded to himself and took a breath.

 

“You know, you do that silent intimidation thing very well. That skill must be exclusive to bodyguards and not wolves, because Scott definitely missed out on that one.”

 

_I have a problem with your brain being missing_ , he instinctively wanted to reply, as Stiles brought out that childish, argumentative side of himself he'd thought had died alongside his family.

Derek’s wolf wasn't exactly angry, more like playfully amused at how much Stiles got under Derek's skin. Its tail swished lazily, ears cocked forward. Which wasn't helping. He had to appear Threatening And In Control.

Derek stood up, reached forward, and shut Stiles’ laptop, which made his eyes snap to Derek’s but there was no further action on the teen’s part.

"Actually, it's a problem with you."

Stiles put his hand to his heart, in that ' _moi? Causing you problems? Never'_ kind of way. "What did I do to you? Specifically, I mean. I do a lot.” He stood up to get something from the desk.

 

Derek had a mission. He couldn't let their banter get in the way. It had happened too often, even in his mind it was 'their' banter. That only they shared. This only belonged to him and Stiles.

He made an executive decision to expedite the process.

 

"Stiles, look," Derek pointed to his bed, a look of horror on his face, voice urgent.

Stiles spun around, leaving his back to Derek as he asked, "What-" and then the man put a hand in the center of Stiles’ shoulders, pushing him face first into the bed.

 

Stiles flipped over so he was seated, knees bent, feet on the bed. "Dude, what the fuck?"

"You need sleep," was all Derek said. Then, "Look, I'm in here with you whether you like it or not. So if that's the reason you're not sleeping, you're going to have to get over it.” He didn’t let his words betray the guilt he felt for Stiles pushing himself.

 

Though it seemed Stiles knew his feelings, without him saying. He let out a breath, pulling in his legs so he was crisscross. "It's not you being in here- well, it kind of is. I'm not- but it's not what you think. I'm more..." His shoulder sagged slightly. "Afraid?"

 

That kind of hurt. There was a whine from somewhere within that Derek didn't want to examine too closely. Was it that time he pulled a gun on Stiles? Or when he lost control and raged-

 

"No- Not of you," Stiles amended, realizing his words weren't getting his feelings across. "It's just, I'm really vulnerable in sleep, right? Not that you’d smother me or anything. It’s that-" he stopped himself.

 

"And you're afraid of nightmares? Of the things you can't control in sleep."

His eyes darted around, he was biting his already red lips. "Yeah. Yes, exactly."

"I'm here," Derek said, meaning it. “Rely on me, Stiles. I’m supposed to be someone you can lean on, someone you can trust.”

The other laughed without humor. "You can't exactly protect me from nightmares."

"I can try."

"I definitely can't sleep if you're just sitting there, watching me."

Derek pulled out his phone. "I have an eBook."

Stiles huffed in exasperation. ' _That's not what I meant and you know it'._ "What do you mean?"

"I mean; I'll wake you up. If you want me to."

Something died on Stiles’ tongue as his face opened up. "That'd be- nice. Actually."

 

 

 

Just when Derek thought his heartbeat had maybe slowed enough to signal sleep, Stiles asked, "Have you ever flipped off the moon?"

"Go to sleep, Stiles."

 

 


	5. October

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meeting is today.

A night’s sleep was not even close to fixing Stiles’ problems. But it was a start.

Stiles slept with flurried legs tangled in blankets and mumbled words. The nightmares evaded him for the night.

Derek was already dressed for the day as he woke Stiles up. He got a few groggy ‘fuck you’s thrown his way before Stiles hobbled to the shower.

Derek walked to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. He leaned against the counter and listened to the steam from the pot and Stiles’ slowed heartbeat under a stream of water.

If this was how the rest of the contract was going to go, he could handle it. Even if he was the alpha and Laura was gone. HE could handle it. 

They were three weeks into the contract. A Wednesday.  
The meeting was today.

“You’re glaring a hole into the coffee pot,” Jackson said.

 

Stiles was in a black suit with a black button down rolled at the sleeves, jacket flung over one shoulder, no tie or waist coat.   
As Derek passed Stiles a thermos of coffee, he couldn't stop staring at his slim waist and ass and his pale and long forearms and the curve of his spine down to his ass in the well fitted clothing-  
Stiles downed his coffee, burning his tongue, before taking a white pill along with his Adderall. Derek didn’t comment.

The group walked outside as Derek hung back to enter the security code and make sure his failsafe was in place.

At Isaac trying to fake-trip him as they walked to their respective vehicles, Stiles said with no real hurt, "I'm so mistreated by all of you.” All things considered, he gave as good as he got.

 

Derek looked in the rearview. Stiles, completely spaced out with an elbow on the door, stared into the passing scenery. His eyes were grey.   
He thought about saying something comforting, something to take Stiles’ mind off of the upcoming meeting, maybe. But then he’d have to say something else to soften it, like a backhanded compliment. And then Stiles would laugh and roast him in return. Then they’d be right back where they were now.   
So Derek said nothing.

 

Stiles threw his messenger bag into his desk chair when they arrived at the office. 

 

Konstantin entered the office, patting Stiles on the back as he talked of the proceedings. “It’s no big deal. Just a meeting.”  
Stiles scoffed and moved to his desk. “’Just a meeting’, you say.”

Derek was on his third read through of Lord of the Flies as he watched Stiles and Konstantin. And he was struck with the causality between them.  
He used to be like that with the betas. When Laura was still alpha.  
Wolves were naturally touchy. Playful.  
But he became distanced.

Watching Konstantin be so casual with Stiles- it was like an ache.

 

There was a bee problem at Tantum. One flew into Stiles’ office and hovered around the plants before flying between Isaac and Stiles, almost like an excited dog, running to its masters.

Isaac eyed the drone. "You're lucky I'm not afraid of bees."  
"Seriously, they'll leave you alone so just ignore them," Stiles said, eye's flying across the computer screen. They'd lightened to an almost gold color. "And whatever you do, do not kill them or-"  
“Mutated bees. What a good place this is,” Jackson announced as he walked into the office. There was a white bandage wrapped around his hand. "How does one apologize to the bees? Do I leave an offering or-?"  
Stiles rolled his eyes. "That's what happens if you try to kill them. The rest go after you. You're marked in the bee's shit list."  
Jackson plopped into the sofa adjacent Isaac. "I didn't even see it when I was walking. It was just chilling on the ground and I stepped on it. Now when I reach into anything, I'm attacked." He held up his club bandage hand. "And did you know bee venom slows our healing processes? I sure as hell didn't."  
"They're not supposed to," Derek said as he entered the office, a bag of fast food under his arm. He threw a thumb behind him, "Isaac, if you want your food, it's in the van."  
Isaac stood up, as he passed saying, "You did this on purpose. You know how windy and wet it is outside?"  
"Yeah, I do. And if you want food, get your ass out there with Boyd. And I’m serious. Bee venom isn't toxic to werewolves."  
"Then what are they, mutant bees? Enhanced bees? Is that even possible?"  
"I didn't think so."  
Stiles remained silent. Then, "Maybe it's because you're a dick. Bees can distinguish between regular people and assholes."  
Jackson paused in the doorway. "I think you're joking but a part of me also thinks you're the one controlling them."  
"They're just protective." Stiles leaned back in his chair, not bothering to conceal his smile. “Isoamyl acetate is the same chemical found in honey bee attacks that’s in bananas and is used to test the safety of gas masks.”   
“That’s a cool fact and all but how do I fix this?”  
Stiles shrugged and leaned forward to sift through a stack of papers. “Sugar water- they love it.”  
“Bribery? Really?”   
“You’d be surprised.”  
Jackson turned and left the office, muttering, “The hell are you even, Stilinski?”

 

"We have our own vaults, all of the groups do. Around the city in places I definitely do not know the exact location of.  
Derek nodded. "So they don't know where yours are, but you know where theirs are?"  
He shrugged too casually. "Maybe. They have bi-weekly deposits in certain places. Money. Black mail material. Rare shit they find. The usual."  
Derek assumed Stiles’ ring of homeless informants told him.  
"What's in yours? Money?"  
"Artwork, books, ceremonial weapons. Priceless antiques and artifacts. We also have blackmail and physical evidence. Among other things."

Konstantin knocked once before coming into the office. At the tail end of a yawn, he asked: “Have you met with that judge yet?”  
“I had a meeting set up last week and it was uneventful,” Stiles answered without looking up from his coded A World Apart.  
Stiles had been less anxious for that meeting- the old Mundy was a greedy idiot. Derek had sat in- it wasn’t always car chases and fire fights. Dealing with men like that was simple. But with this meeting- Gerard and Deucalion used Machiavellian schemes and deception. What they wanted, beyond money, was unknown to Stiles.

“What about the jailed men?”  
Stiles shrugged. At Derek’s inquisitive eyebrow raise, he said, “Our conviction rates are so low because we’re not some low-brow gangsters that sell dime bags on the corner.”  
His syndicate was massive, but it was hidden. And professional. Of course they didn’t get caught- they owned half the police force and had a few judges in their pocket.   
“Which is why it’s such a big deal when it does happen. We’re supposed to be the silent force, everywhere and nowhere. When someone’s convicted, that makes us visible. But there are never loose ends, we make sure of that.”  
Konstantin nodded. “I’m working on it.” With that, he left.

Stiles shut his laptop and leaned back to rub his face. "We have some branches in Texas and Florida that are really put out right now."  
"Why?"  
"Mainly me. And of course, mutant and human tension. But they'll get over it."  
“How do you know that?”  
“Because they have no choice.”

 

"That looks- tedious."  
He leaned against his fist, creating smush face. "Oh, it is. But I'm the only one who won't completely fuck it up so here I am."  
Derek stared into the rows of numbers and the boxes with miniscule letters and codes.   
"It's my job to make sure everyone's revenue is being reported and to make sure everyone's pulling their own and not skimming off the top. Among a billion other things. And I'll tell you a secret." He leaned closer. "I don’t really like math."  
Derek cracked a smile. "And yet, here you are."  
“It’s called compartmentalization. Nobody spills the secrets, because no one knows them all.”  
“Except you.”  
Stiles smiled. “Except me.”  
Derek understood the money in the group well enough. Every group had their own money and sources of revenue. But there was a pool of money the groups had to contribute a percentage of their income towards. That was the account that gave them a national and rising global presence. And it was Stiles’ job to maintain that pool.  
“Jackass of all trades; master of none,” Isaac said, around a mouthful of vending machine chips.  
Stiles tapped on his keyboard. “Actually, I’m terrible at sports.”

 

 

“Dude, I’m terrified. This is nerve-racking. My nerves are racked. They’re severely racked. And my heart rate ‘training’ isn’t going to do anything.” Stiles paced around the office, fidgeting with his spiral cufflinks.  
“Stiles. Look at me.”  
He turned to Derek, eyes that cold color of ice.   
He’d work himself into a panic attack at that rate. “Stiles. Listen to me.”  
“What? Yes, I’m listening.”  
Derek could hear the tremble in Stiles’ heart but his words and energy remained true. “It doesn’t matter what your heart is doing. If you look and sound the part, they’ll believe it. Remember, Stiles: You’re the boss.” Derek believed in him, even if he didn’t believe in himself.  
Stiles let out a shaky exhale. He perched himself at the edge of his desk, crossing him arms defensively over his chest. "My dad used to have this look- from being sheriff for so long. Like 'I'm the big boss and I'm disappointed in you'. That kind of thousand-yard stare. I've seen grown men tremble under The Look. Haven't perfected it. Probably never will."

This wasn’t about Tantum. It was about Stiles. It was about everything it took for Stiles to get to this point, everything it cost him. He was there that day because he refused to give up and refused to give in. Stiles was there, where no one thought he’d ever be. And no one could say he hadn’t earned it.   
All eyes would be on him, and it was time to show them what he was made of. No room for doubt, no room for second guesses, no room for errors.   
This was his moment, and he’d have to seize it with everything he had. Fight because he didn’t know how to just lay down and die quietly. Win because he didn’t know how to lose.  
Those king’s, Deucalion and Gerard and the rest- had ruled long enough in his absence.  
It was time to tear their castle’s down.

Stiles walked around the desk and leaned down to rifle through his messenger bag. When he stood back up, he was shuffling his Tarot deck. 

 

“Why enjoy today when I can just be worried about tomorrow?”

 

The spread was different than the one he’d done for Derek’s reading. There were five, spaced in a circle.  
Stiles held the last card. A jester, carrying a bag over his shoulder.  
“What does it mean?” Derek asked.  
Stiles looked up at him. “It’s the Fool.” He collected the cards back into the deck.  
“I already knew that,” Derek said, indicating Stiles, not the card.  
“Funny," Stiles said in monotone, before continuing into an explanation. "Upright, it’s basically the wild optimism of youth. And the potential for everything to go horribly wrong.”  
Derek nodded slowly. “What was the question?”  
Stiles shrugged, putting the cards back into his messenger bag. “Sometimes it’s not the question that’s important; it’s the answer.” Something dinged on his computer screen. Stiles looked at the notification and said, “Seems like your job just got a whole lot more interesting.”  
“Why?” Derek turned to the door just as Erica walked through it.  
“Sorry,” she murmured before Peter was stepping past her.

 

“What are you doing here?” Derek growled, standing in front of Stiles. The urge to protect and defend was setting his blood on fire. His wolf was snarling at him.  
“Calm down, nephew. I’m only here for today.”  
“You came back from Japan- for a day?”  
“For a dog, actually. My yakuza friend has a precious canine that has fallen ill. Deaton assured me he had medicine- the kind that can’t be mailed, if you know what I mean. My flight leaves at two in the morning.” He looked at his watch "I figured I'd see how you were doing. Meet the client, assess the situation."   
You mean undermine my authority and nitpick my every action?

Stiles didn’t stand up from behind the desk. “So you’re the creepy uncle?”  
Peter turned to him. “And you’re the child that can’t follow orders?”  
He and Peter eyed each other.

Erica shifted her weight from foot to foot, eyes darting between Peter, Derek, and Stiles. “Erica, sit down.”  
She nodded, hurriedly parking it on the leather couch. Jackson entered the room and silently joined her.

Isaac had his thumb behind him as he walked through the door. "Why did I just see Peter-"  
"And the circle of stupidity is complete," Peter said, as his eyes roamed the expansive bookshelves. He reached out to graze his fingers over the spines.

The fact that Deaton and Peter had so much correspondence without Derek's knowledge shouldn't have been particularly surprising or upsetting. They were history together, from before the Hale fire. Peter was still the boss, even if he was absent on their current contract.   
But Derek didn't like it. His wolf didn't like it. There was that anxious pacing. The low whines, signaling discontent. There wasn't much he could do about that, until Peter left. So his wolf would just have to deal.

Peter sauntered in, riding a cloud made from his own smug charisma.

“Seems the pack bond gets weak, so far away.”  
Derek didn’t have the energy to say that the pack bond shouldn’t be affected over distance. But of course, Peter knew that. Which meant he knew what it meant, for him to be feeling the weakness of the bond.  
Derek was feeling it too.

The wolf treated Peter with indifference. It sat at Derek’s side, looked at Peter with narrowed eyes and then looked away, to Stiles standing at his desk, phone up to his ear.

Derek heard Scott’s out of control heartbeat and smelled his teenage pheromones before he saw the teen.  
“Scott, my man.” Stiles moved to greet Scott, ignoring Peter on his way to the door. They shook hands and turned it into a hug.  
“I hate these things. But I have to come because Deaton,” Scott said, as he pulled away.  
“And you think I do? Fuck, I mean, it’s awkward and everyone’s so hostile.” Stiles elbowed him in the side suggestively, leaning in until he was inches from Scott's ear. “But you know who’ll be coming? As a certain successor to her own group?”  
“Shut up,” Scott hissed, cheeks turning a bright red.

“You-” Stiles pointed at Scott, now back at his desk. “Snack-bitch. The catering service is here.”  
Scott’s response was to hit him in the kidney and sprint away, seemingly thankful to get away from Peter and the awkwardness he brought.

“So… Peter, how is it going in Japan?” Erica asked, trying to not let the conversation die.  
“It’s routine. There’s nothing to know. The biggest thing we’ve had happen is the dog getting sick. It’s a terrible bore, especially when I have to chaperone in Harajuku for the client’s girlfriend. I’m more of a preventative measure.”

They all lapsed into silence, until Stiles asked, “Hey, so is pearling still a thing among the Yakuza? Especially in prison?”  
Erica’s face scrunched up in disgust.  
“What? Just making thoughtful conversation that pertains to Peter’s job.”  
“Can confirm.” Peter’s face was set in a neutral grimace.

Deaton entered the office, with no warning from Boyd over the comms, with a package under his arm. “This should fix up the pup.”  
Derek nodded and crossed his arms, eyes set on Peter. “You can fly back to Japan now.”  
It was Deaton who said, “Actually, it may be a good idea for Peter to sit in during the meeting. Because he is in the contract too, just not an active member. He needs to be kept in the loop, see how things run.”  
“Isn’t that a security problem, having someone sit in on a confidential meeting of syndicate affairs? Won’t the other groups have a problem with it?” Erica said, fighting the good fight.  
“I mean, not really. Peter is on your contract because he is the boss, even though you’re the alpha. And security is allowed in these meetings soooo…” Stiles said unhelpfully. Though he seemed to regret it the moment it came out of his mouth.  
Erica and Jackson took Stiles’ talking as an opportunity to leave.

Deaton and Peter headed to the meeting room, catching up like old friends.  
How anyone could be Peter’s friend was beyond Derek.

When they were out of ear shot, Stiles shivered. “The guy makes me want to go take a cold shower and scrub myself with a brillo pad. It’s like every word he says is some serial killer manifesto.”  
“That’s…actually an accurate description,” Isaac said.

Stiles picked up the desk phone again and dialed a number. “Altair, I need that thing from the records room. Say hi to MM for me when you’re down there.” He hung up.

 

Derek was given a second’s warning over his earpiece before he heard the tapping of a cane and smelled wolf.  
He’d debriefed the team after the funeral, as Stiles was passed out, on Deucalion’s ‘blindness’.

"Did you know a rapid wolf has a peculiar smell? It's distinct, like the sweetness of a fever. It's so other wolves can recognize mad dogs. As a caution. Or a warning of weakness. Because insanity does not equal strength. It's weakness,” Deucalion said as a greeting, as he stood in the doorway of Stiles’ office, Ennis at his side.

Derek’s wolf, without his permission, jumped at Deucalion’s feet, teeth gnashing.  
Deucalion noticed Derek shift, noticed his taut shoulders and narrowed eyes. “Stiles, you should keep your dog on a shorter leash,” he said.  
"I know it's kind of your thing to stir the cauldron, but we're trying to be professionals here. Take your playground taunts to the meeting room please, with the other children who'll be more entertaining, I promise. Especially because Gerard kind of has it out for any charming, handsome wolves," Stiles said, to diffuse the wolves standing off.

The compliment made Derek bristle. And something about the way Deucalion’s head shifted towards him said that he recognized Derek’s possessive streak.  
It made Derek feel wrong for Stiles to call anyone else handsome. Made his wolf whine, a high pitched keening noise, followed by a growl directed at Deucalion.  
Though Stiles was just like that. Careless and flirtatious compliments. Derek couldn’t tell if he was conscious of it, or if he was just one of those people that flirted with everybody subconsciously. Whatever it was, it pissed him off.

Stiles discreetly moved in front of Derek as Ennis said words that Derek couldn’t focus on because their shoulders touched and Stiles’ knuckles brushed his fingers.

Derek was still trying to grasp the fact he'd just called the head of a group a shit stirrer. Was he terribly surprised? Not really.  
Derek half expected all out murder but the blind wolf just smiled widely, tapping his cane, Deucalion's face turned grave for one second before he snapped into a smile, seemingly remembering something. "Gerard does get worked up when you talk about how his daughter, Victoria, ran off with an omega wolf," he chuckled, gaining new life and material for harassment. "Ennis, lead the way," he said to his subordinate, who took his arm. And they were off.  
When Derek was sure the alphas were on the next floor, he turned to Stiles. "You don't need to defend me. I can handle myself."   
"Like hell you can. You were about two seconds from going alpha on him." Stiles played with his spiral cufflinks. “And you’re my security, you work for me. An insult on you is an insult on me.”

Jackson was back, now that it was safe and the office was clear of Peter. "What would happen if I told Deucalion or Gerard you feed stray cats in your spare time? And you talk to them? Come to think of it, I think I've seen you talk to your plants too."  
"I have a lot to say and you guys don't listen." Stiles tapped his fingers against the wooden desk. "And if you told them any of that, I think I actually might snap."   
And that stopped him because for less than a second, something showed in his face that said he was serious. But then he was back. "But I don't know. You could try it and see."

 

“They’re ready for you, Stiles,” Derek said, after Boyd gave the word over the earpiece. 

 

“I could just bust a power move by not showing up. I’ve done that before.”  
“Stiles, keep walking,” was all Derek said in response.

Stiles was talking about a meeting with a broker at the stock exchange, on the south tip of Manhattan, close to the Staten Island ferry. Stiles, after revealing he’d planned to go to Cony Island after the meeting, was shut down. He sent someone else in his place, on Derek’s orders. Though he’d been too eager to accept defeat, which made Derek think Stiles didn’t care for the stuffy atmosphere of Wall Street. Stiles had said something about businessmen being one bad day away from a mobster. ‘Mobsters are bad enough. Businessmen are always trying to dip a toe into our world and leave, not understanding that our world will yank you right back.’

 

Altair, back from the records room, met them in the hallway and handed Stiles a file. “The rest of the Alphas just showed up. As well as the rest of the Argents.”  
Stiles laughed. “How awkward.”

The Argents, Chris, Gerard, Allison, Reddick, and Unger, went straight to the meeting room, probably thinking they’d be the first to show up. Well, surprise, Deucalion and Ennis were already there. Marin, Marco, Kali, Ethan, and Aiden were all on the way too.

 

They went to the meeting room several floors down.

The rest of the Alphas were walking to the door.  
“Kali, darling, shoes are optional. But just because you don’t have to wear them, should you really?” Stiles looked to her bare feet. “Should you really?”  
She laughed in a loud, fake way. “Oh, how I missed you.”  
The twins stood behind her, in silence. One of the twins was more sociable than the other. Or at least better at pretending he was.

 

Boyd swept for wire taps beforehand. And Deaton and the woman with the Alphas performed a ritual to keep out any listening ears. It was an enchantment that was beyond the level of what Derek’s pack could do.   
He vaguely recognized some of the swirls of runes, some of the consonants Deaton mumbled. Protection and defense, mainly.

The thing with mutant criminals- they all knew about the heightened senses of weres and countless others. They trained in preventative measures. Like heart beat training. He’d noticed at the funeral but there was nothing to lie about there so it hadn't been a problem.   
Now they were in a room full of liars and conmen who all trained to suppress subconscious tics.  
Except Stiles, of course.

 

One wall had floor to ceiling windows. They were tinted and thick, matching the windows in the rest of the building. The table was large and rectangular. Regular, black swivel chairs randomly placed.   
Stiles was closest to the door, with Derek sitting slightly behind him, was at one head of the table. The other end was Deaton, with Peter and Scott on either side of him. Mirroring Derek’s position, slightly behind the vet. On Derek’s left were the Alphas. The twins, Ethan and Aiden, were sitting closet to him. Then Deucalion, with Ennis sitting behind, just enough to talk into his ear. After that was their emissary Morrell, then Kali and Marco, who was closest to Peter. On the right side were the Argents, something Stiles probably did on purpose, considering the Argents and Alphas hated each other the most and now they had to face each other for the duration of the meeting. Sitting closest to Stiles on the right side was Allison, then Chris and Gerard. Though the second in command was the one looking at things on the laptop, while the head was sifting through papers. One the other side of Gerard was –nameless people, who kept shifting in their seats. Clearly uncomfortable about being made to sit next to a werewolf, especially an omega. Peter was throwing them the occasional knowing smirk.

Everyone had a collection of papers and a laptop open in front of them. It was so normal and corporate looking that it was easy to forget what was being discussed.

Stiles had two modes. People mode and work mode. One was professional. Cold, less sarcastic. Calculated. The other was a truer version of himself. Endless energy. Banter and barely disguised flirting. Both were so fucking smart. Deadly so.  
Derek hazarded to say neither were completely him. Two, extremely well fitting person-suits. Or human veils. Carefully sculpted masks.   
Derek had seen it countless times. In his position, he bore witness to all sides. Anger, anxiety, grief- he had to gage mood, be able to recognize when something wasn't right, without them saying. Which, admittedly, was harder than deflecting bullets. But he had to love that werewolf nose, because he wasn't the god of social graces at the best of times. The clients he protected switched masks as rapidly as a record spinning on a turn table.  
The switch, for Stiles, was almost effortless. Though the two modes blended together. Mostly because of his ADHD, and what Derek was sure were various other mental health issues, didn't just go away with the right mindset and wishful thinking. There was still fidgeting, though he did try harder to be aware of it. And that bite in his sense of humor was still there, though it was used more for deflection.   
Stiles had an awkward, flirty charm that was specific to him. Sometimes even Derek, who found him annoying half the time and barely tolerable the other half, was somehow drawn in.   
But all that changed when he got into his serious, boss mode.  
A mask for each occasion. For if his enemies saw his true face, they'd take advantage.

There was something different about the way Stiles moved. Like the earth was a chess board and every step was a potential loss. Another way to be taken out of the game.

Scott arrived with the coffee and snacks. He put the boxes down and ducked out of the room. No one moved.

"Don't worry your pretty little heads, I'm not petty enough to poison you. I wouldn’t do that to the food,” Stiles joked, though it came out cold.  
Amidst the awkward silence and shuffling of papers, Peter said, "I, for one, would love a muffin."

The tension was palpable. Everyone in the room hated the person next to them for different reasons.

Guns, as a show of good faith, were left out in the open on the table. Everyone had alternative means of protection, Stiles had assured Derek. But the ‘honor’ part of the honor system was that no one brought it up. Stiles had his knife and others probably had a .22 at their ankle. Maybe even a spell or two.

“Sure you can trust your bodyguards in here?” Deucalion was standing his cane up against the table’s edge as he asked a question with an obvious answer. No conflict of interest, on top of the scrubbers- of course he could be trusted.   
It was a test, a hazing type ritual that Derek steadfastly did not roll his eyes at, despite going through it many times before. Weeding out the weak and letting the strong remain. And if Derek was anything, he was strong and able to weather whatever the mobsters threw at him.  
“He’ll be fine,” Stiles said. His tone was good natured, but it betrayed something else.   
Resentment. It was the same energy he’d carried throughout the funeral.  
Derek adjusted his footing. 

“This is the first meeting of the heads without John. You have big shoes to fill, Stiles,” Gerard said.  
The corner of Stiles’ mouth quirked up.

Deaton could not go to Stiles' aid if any of the underlings gave him trouble. He could offer no assistance. Stiles had to earn his respect, the way John had. Through an iron fist. Stiles did not have an iron fist. He did not kill a man with his bare hands in some calculated act on the road to misguided revenge. He was just a kid.

Derek watched Stiles being the meeting with his heart is in his stomach. Nerve wracking. Tension lined every heartbeat. He could feel Stiles' focus and taste the adrenaline like it was his own.

“And what news comes from the East, Gerard?”  
The United Nations Headquarters was on the east side of Manhattan, next to the Chrysler building. Stiles had someone on his payroll in both buildings. 

Stiles had his copy of A World Apart open in front of him, as well as his laptop. He flipped through the book occasionally. He wasn’t worried about any wandering eyes, because the code was impossible to understand by anyone else other than himself.

“So I spoke to our lawyers…”

He'd sat in on a meeting with Stiles and his lawyers at Goldman Sachs in the financial district. He’d met dozens on their type before- they were all the same cold-blooded creatures, whether it was mundies or mutants signing their checks. They were vultures, perfect for the syndicate.

“We have a group of bookies in Indiana that keep getting worked over- the Alphas need reinforcements. Get there and straighten the others out before the week is over. And New Jersey is having problems with in-fighting between mutant and mundy subgroups. Fix it.”

Upper class, corporate mobsters were all the same. Nice suits. Financially savvy. Obsessed with money. Sneaky and conniving. Ruthless. Braggarts, bullies, and sweet talkers.  
John reminded Derek of the old yakuza- the same stock Stiles was cut from. Derek’s experiences as a child, when family business took the Hales to Japan. And Talia reminisced aloud what the yakuza used to be like.

“I think this was meant for you, Deucalion.” Deaton passed him an unmarked envelope.   
“I’ll make sure to send them a hand.” He smiled with wolf’s teeth. 

They fixed races- horse, car, dog. They managed illegal exports and imports. They greased palms and paid people to spy or look the other way, whatever the occasion called for. They ran underground gambling dens.

“The Magic Task Force is being handled,” Gerard said. “They’re even easier to manipulate than the local police.”

The malice in the room was hidden behind a thin veneer of bureaucracy. And if that was how every meeting went, then Derek could understand Stiles’ previous apprehension and dread.

"There are some missing shipments."  
There was a reluctant pause. "Yeah, some low level thugs worked our guys over."  
“Do they have allegiance with anyone? Or was it randomized?” Stiles asked.  
Chris looked to Gerard before saying, “We’re certain it was randomized. Just some junkies looking to score.”  
"Do you have it under control?"  
"We will. Where is the guy who handles this?”  
“He's gone back to the holy land for birthright.” Stiles said.  
“How long?”  
“A week, maybe.”  
“So he won’t be helping to control that Russian cab company?” Ennis asked. “One of theirs is in Rikers for strong-arming a bartender.”  
“Is this going to start a turf war? No? Then let him sit and think about what he did.” Stiles paused and pulled up something on his computer. “But that brings us to another topic, Chris. The rate at which some of your dealers are getting arrested is unacceptable. We own fifty percent of precinct 6 alone, how is this happening? Three jailed in minimum security, two more in holding- awaiting trial and sentencing, one actually in prison- and those are just the ones our negotiators weren't able to bail out. Are you training them at all?"  
"They get picked up at airports. Controlled deals are harder to train them for-"  
Stiles tapped his fingers against the desk, face in shadows.  
The air in the room had gone cold.  
To Derek, he looked like a completely different person. A stranger with vaguely similar features to Stiles. Even his smell was different. There was more of that electrifying burn.  
"I’m not asking for excuses. I'm asking for results. So far, they’ve only been able to get small time dealers. If a controlled deal does get back to you, you're fucked. And by proxy, so are the rest of us. Rising tides raise all ships, but shitty weather sinks us all too.” Stiles sighed and leaned forward. "We can get to the ones on trial. The judge is going to go away immediately for surgery in the Bahamas, and the replacement is an affiliate of ours. The one in prison has a five year sentence, that we're getting out on a 'deal'. The DA believes they've been rehabilitated after serving two months of their sentence. Same as the ones awaiting trial. The one in Rikers will just have to sit for the next three months until he’s released. But that's more than fair, considering he was the one who was caught." 

There was an inaudible breath of relief emanating from the Argent's side as Stiles fixed their mistakes.

They moved on to discussing someone who owed money and had no intention of paying it back, now that John was gone and Stiles was kingpin.   
Gerard had a lit cigar in his hand as he spoke. “We shoot him. Easy, done.”  
Heads bobbed in agreement around the table.   
“No. Shoot up his car while he’s visiting his lover in the red light district. Make sure people see it, but no one gets hurt,” Stiles ordered.  
“Shooting people sends a message,” Gerard said, glare lost on Stiles as his head was down, signing the order with his revisions.   
“So does shooting anything,” Stiles said, looking up to slide the paper Gerard and Chris’ way. “Shooting people gets you sent to jail.”  
“That’s part of the job description,” Chris said.  
“We can’t be too careful after all the men sitting in prison right now. You’ll do it and no blood will be spilled. We do it my way and the guy still pays because he knows running won’t work and he’ll be scared shitless. Believe me, he’ll pay up.”

The lifted trading embargo with Cuba was able to help them get uncut product in the country, via ships and a harbormaster that was in the syndicate’s pocket. The lawyer’s were having a field day.

“And that newspaper that mentioned Tantum being involved in the criminal underworld?”  
“Sued for slander and libel.”   
Stiles was right, his lawyers were vultures. They’d go after anyone who threatened the syndicate, be it a crime columnist or blogger. Anyone who tried to connect the dots between Tantum as a company and Tantum as the head of a crime syndicate would get taken down, by any means necessary. 

"Profit has dropped 2% over the last month, Deucalion. Collecting loans not going your way? Mutant night clubs not drumming up enough business?"  
Deucalion turned sideways, towards Ennis. The giant looked somewhat nervous, like a child being scolded by their elder. Evidently, the second in command had forgone telling his boss about the fall in profit. "Ennis, care to explain?"  
"There were some- complications. With a loan investment. And retrieval."  
Stiles' face was neutral. He tapped two keys on his keyboard. "Complications?"  
"The man died- prematurely. We're trying to find the money now."  
Stiles took a breath, fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the table. "How long have you been doing this?"  
Deucalion was grimacing. Anger and embarrassment at his subordinate. Ennis' failure was his failure.  
"Almost fifteen years," Ennis answered.  
Stiles let the answer sink in. Fifteen years was a long time. "And you killed a man? Like an amateur."  
Ennis said nothing. He was scowling. The room was silent, air thick with tension.   
"Answer me," Stiles said. His tone was even, face almost relaxed. Which was even scarier.  
He was a completely different person.  
"Yes. I acted with impatience."  
"Which led to a death, which led to me not getting my money."  
Ennis schooled his expression. "I'll get the money. He has property we're selling."

Their world had simple rules. The boss' word was law; you break it, he breaks you.

 

"Oh my fuck. I need a cigarette. And like, three naps. It feels like my heart is going to explode." He was grabbing at his chest. He smelled like a fire. The electricity so strong it sparked into a flame, burning him up.  
Derek passed him his pack of cigarettes. Stiles gratefully took them.   
At his questioning look, Derek explained, "You left them at the safe house. I'm fine carrying them." He'd carried a lot worse for worse people. He flicked the lighter open for Stiles, who leaned down to light his cigarette. "And for the record, you did a good job."  
Stiles raised an eyebrow as he inhaled. "I didn't feel like I did a good job."  
"It was-" Derek stuffed the pack and lighter back into his pocket "- impressive. None of them were expecting that."  
Stiles smiled and looked at his feet. “My father’s philosophy was the loudest one in the room is the weakest one in the room.” He glanced back up, to look around the roof they stood on.

"I understand why you don't like Peter, to be honest." He took another puff. Blowing out, he said, "You know how you wolves get blue eyes after taking an innocent life? Well, that's the color of his aura. And in my experience, when a color reminds me of something distinctly bad- that's not a good sign. It means he's willing to crush the innocent to get what he wants."  
"Power." Derek knew as much. Switching conversations, he asked, “Deaton and Marin… do they know each other well?"  
"I know they have a history. But I don't know if it's bad or good."  
"She's the scrubber? And the dreamwalker?"  
"Yeah, among other things." Stiles scratched the back of his head. "Scary stuff."  
After a beat of silence, Derek said, “You did good in there.”   
Stiles smiled wide. "Did you think I was cool?"  
And just because Stiles looked so open and cute, Derek's inner Big Bad Wolf urged him to   
destroy that. "Nope. I change my mind."  
"Derekkkkk-"  
"You were the opposite of cool."  
"Asshole." Stiles’ eyes followed the flight of a bumble bee. It was hovering over a purple flower in that kind of way that made Derek think they were just attached to strings and were being jerked up and down occasionally. They weren’t even supposed to be able to fly. Physics defying little demons. Invisible strings just might've been the solution to one of science's biggest questions. 

"I just feel like a puppet on a string sometimes. Being pulled and controlled by violent puppeteers." The flowers seemed to reach out to Stiles. And he was reaching back, ghosting gentle fingers over petals. “But they have their tricks, and I have mine. They try to hide things but the problem is, I know where to look.”

 

 

“He’s a little firecracker, isn’t he?” Peter mused, as Stiles talked in an animated way to Konstantin and Deaton.  
Derek stood, heading for the door.  
“What are you doing?”  
Derek paused. “I have to go before I put your head through a wall.”

 

 

Deaton and Peter departed at nine for the drive to the airport. Leaving Stiles to pore over his work.

Stiles rubbed at his temples, eyes pinched shut.  
"Headache?" Derek asked.  
He nodded. "Always."  
"Here." Derek dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, white bottle. He tossed it to Stiles. "I noticed you were out yesterday."  
He caught it and read the label. His eyes lit up. "You're my little werewolf superhero."  
"Not exactly 'little'. And it's my job." And you're the most forgetful person I know.  
Stiles popped two of the pills with the remainder of his can of Red Bull. Derek suppressed a glare. "Hey, dude, I have so much shit to catch up on- kind of the head of a syndicate here. New problems, new money, stuff with other states and relations with other countries- Don't judge me."  
Derek raised his eyebrow, sitting back down with his tablet. 'Judging you' written all over his face. "If you don't want to destroy your liver any further, we could do something else."  
"I mean, I think my liver is cast iron but if you want to try something better, I'm all for it."  
Derek, without saying anything, took Stiles’ hand in his. Before Stiles could register what was happening, he instantly relaxed as black veins traveled up Derek’s arm.  
Stiles’ eyes fluttered closed. "Mhmm." He melted into the touch.  
Derek swallowed hard. His face felt hot. His wolf was panting audibly and he elected to ignore it.   
The feeling for him was hot pins and needles traveling up his arm.  
“I'm going to need a second. That’s such a head rush.” Stiles took a breath.

 

It was midnight.  
Isaac was sprawled on the couch, doing his best to keep from nodding off. The others were outside, prepping for departure. 

Derek stood and rounded the desk, unnoticed, and clasped Stiles' shoulder. "You're done."  
There was a spread sheet on the monitor. He was typing at a rapid pace. "Can't. Still have some stuff to do that I have to do on the server here-" The clicking of keys stopped as Derek pulled the swivel chair away from the desk.  
"Nooo-" Stiles was reaching his arms out, trying to get back to the keyboard. Derek pulled him far enough that Stiles had to stand if he wanted to avoid falling forward, face first into the carpet.  
'Dick," Stiles said, as he stood up and exited whatever program he'd been using. “You’re creating a hostile work environment.”

 

“Can I sit in the front?” Stiles clasped his hands together. “Please?”  
Derek's first response was to ignore him completely. But Stiles' eyes and the smell of his exhaustion made him feel a little weak to the whims of his wolf, which was whining and curling around his legs. Pleading with him to give Stiles what he wanted. Anything he wanted.

The Mercedes was armored. It shouldn’t be a big deal if Stiles sat in the front, just once.

 

Stiles compulsively messed with the radio, changing the station partway through a song and adjusting the volume. Derek glared.

A yellow Bug cut him off. He gripped the steering wheel tighter.   
“Oof. That road rage’s hitting you hard today, isn’t it?”  
Derek said nothing. Then, “I’m not vocal about it.”  
“Not overtly vocal about a lot of things. But it shows on your face.” He leaned back in the seat, smile creeping on his face. “It’s funny.”  
Glad my rage amuses you.

The Escalade was always traveling in an alternate route whenever they left a destination., Derek’s Mercedes was always semi- close to the security van. So someone would be close enough in a pinch. 

The route from Soho to the Williamsburg bridge was blocked. Sections closed and taped away for filming. A movie or commercial, maybe. He said it into his wrist. Derek plugged something onehanded into his GPS. “Detour. Head towards Little Italy and we’ll take the Queens bridge back.” Derek hanged a right, continuing straight.  
His wolf, who’d been napping in the back seat, sat up.

He got word from Boyd that they’d been separated. Sure enough, as Derek checked the rearview, he couldn’t see the van. They’d missed the light for the detour and were stuck on red.

One of the positives of living in the city of neon and chrome was the lack of actual night. The sky could be dark but there was never truly any darkness. There were streetlights and lit signs and windows.

That is, until lights started shutting off. The streets were empty, no cars lining the gutters. The windows were dark, the streetlights going out.

Not a person in sight.

Danger, his wolf growled. Danger.

 

There was a dot in the distance. A dark thing in the middle of the road. Even with superior vision, Derek couldn't make it out.  
It only took another yard or two for him to make out the shape of a man, in dark gear, with something like a rocket launcher resting on his shoulder.

"Shit-" He had just enough time to flip the steering wheel, spinning 90 degrees, missing the RPG by mere feet. The explosion was behind them, hitting a mass of fire escapes that came crashing down in the street. Fiery debris blocked their way back and separated the caravan. 

The sound of Stiles' shoulder hitting the window as Derek jerked the wheel sharply was joined by his loud, ‘oh my fuck’. He’d jerked on the seatbelt and Derek could hear a ‘click’ as it locked. 

Derek pressed on the brake as the Mercedes fell into a tailspin, not before running over something loud.   
There were four bangs, the distinct sound of the tires popping. Fucking nail strips, bulletproof tires wouldn’t help him here-

He lost control in a hurried skid, narrowly flipping the car as another RPG whizzed by- only avoided as Derek did an accidental 360. The Mercedes jumped the curb as a hail of bullets pelted the windows, some bouncing, some connecting with glass and creating spiderwebs. They were going too fast, Derek thought, as everything flipped. And for a brief moment, they were weightless.

His world narrowed into one instinct, beyond any conscious thought: protect Stiles.

The Mercedes, sliding on the roof, was halted by a brick wall. It came to a stop farther down the sidewalk, next to a dumpster.

Derek relied on his instinct. His experience and the wolf’s reflexes working in tandem. His instinct told him that the air bag was the biggest threat to Stiles when they eventually crashed. His wolf agreed and took over, giving him the speed and strength to thrust his right arm out, across Stiles’ chest. The brunt of the bag deploying transferred to his arm and not Stiles’ face and chest.

Glass shattered around them.

His wolf was howling, gnashing its teeth. Feral and ferocious.

The force rendered bone. Derek could hear the snap, sharp in his own ears. A compound fracture. Blood and bone damaged his sleeve. Within seconds the flesh was knitting back together, re-growing bone at the same rate it was splintering out of his arm.

The force of his own airbag deploying in Derek’s face was enough to stun him for seconds that felt like hours.

The side of his head clapped against the window and black starbursts danced in his eyes. He didn’t hear the skid of metal on pavement, didn’t hear the broken glass flying around them land.  
He couldn’t hear anything above a high pitched ringing.

 

The world was upside down.  
No.  
Derek was.

Derek shook his head, bidding the dizzy darkness to go away. He still couldn’t hear. Black spots were taking over the edges of his vision.

 

Stiles’ door was almost wrenched off, in the haste to open it. The one dressed in tactical gear was there, to pull Stiles out of the wreckage of the flipped car.

The man squatted down in front of the open door and batted away the deflated air bag. He had a knife out to cut away Stiles' seatbelt, one hand around Stiles’ back, the other around Stiles’ upper chest.   
Stiles was nearly unconscious until the seat belt was gone and with a groan fell to the ceiling of the flipped car. The man in the tactical gear pulled him out, feet dragging on the ground. 

Derek’s own seatbelt and airbag felt like chains around his body. His head lolled to the side as he watched Stiles’ body get dragged from the car.

Hurry. Hurry.

Stiles struggled. He tried to yell. To scream and fight as the man dragged him to his feet with those arms wrapped around his chest. One moved around his neck as Stiles clawed at both.   
Stiles fought like a badger. Scratching with blunt nails and kicking for all he was worth.

The volume was turned down on the world. And slowly turned back up. Stiles’ panicked and breathless ‘Derek’s. His aborted screams, breathing choked off.

Derek’s claws were out, slashing at his own seatbelt and airbag, falling and landing sideways on his shoulder, head avoiding the center console that was now on the ceiling from his perspective. He corrected his position until his feet were against his own door. He kicked with the strength of the alpha and the door broke off its hinges. It landed several feet away.  
He climbed out of the hole where there used to be a door. 

Stiles was leaning to the side, fingers working down his leg to his concealed knife.

Derek popped up from behind the Mercedes, gun out of his holster.

The assailant ripped Stiles’ knife from his fingers and threw it at Derek. His movements were too quick and Derek took the knife to his shoulder, but not before he shot a round between his eyes.

Derek rounded the car as Stiles and the man collapsed on each other. He hefted Stiles up by his bicep and guided him back to the other side of the flipped Mercedes, away from the other attackers.  
He fired off another few rounds, making the incoming men retreat just slightly.

He released Stiles’ bicep and unwound his arm from Stiles’ waist, as he nodded in some form of understanding. 

Stiles was on the ground catching his breath in shock and pain, gasping out: “He wasn't human.”

And Stiles was right. If it wasn’t the strength that would’ve tipped Derek off, it would’ve been the fact that the man Derek just shot between the eyes was clumsily standing back up again, blood smearing the only uncovered, pale strip of skin on his face.  
His aura was too dim, it didn’t tell Derek anything.

He scented the air, over the gun powder and oil and fire and dust, he smelled something like death.  
Maybe vampires. But there was something else.

“They aren’t mundies,” Derek confirmed, creeping towards the trunk, trying to see around the corner.  
Stiles crouched with him, tapping him on the shoulder. “Derek, I know you’re probably thinking of running out there and going all alpha on them but look-” he pointed to a bullet, lodged in a piece of metal from one of the armored doors. The bullet had was carved and leaking around the bullets soft-nosed tip was black powder. “They’re enchanted. And poisoned,” Derek said.  
“Overkill, I know. But you get hit, you won’t get back up,” Stiles said.

Derek wrenched the knife out of his shoulder and wiped it on the sleeve that wasn’t already covered in his own blood before handing it back to Stiles.   
He took it with wide eyes. His fingers weakly clutched the knife, as he looked from it to Derek’s already healed, bloody shoulder. “I’m going to pass out.”

Stiles was talking too loud; had been talking to loud. It must’ve been the explosion. Or it could’ve been shock.  
Bruises were already forming above his collar. Stiles was trying to pilot a body that was fighting against shock and unconsciousness and panic.

Derek had his gun out of his shoulder holster.

His ears rang from the explosion.

Derek put a finger to his ear, only to be met by static.  
A signal jammer. Perfect.

Confident in the cover the dumpster provided the front half of the Mercedes, Derek said, “Stay here.”

He crouch-walked along the length of the car to see their attackers.  
Four men had joined the previous one, and they were crouched down, approaching with their pieces drawn.  
Derek jumped up, using the roof as a stand as he fired off three shots. The men in the road were moving in an inhuman way, dodging the bullets, dancing out of the way.

Apparently over the shock, or at least, just enough for his stubborn self to come rearing back, Stiles had made his way into a crouch next to Derek.  
“No- get back-” There was a torrent of bullets and Derek grabbed Stiles’ shoulder, forcing them both to the ground.

Stiles covered his ears as more bullets were aimed their way.  
Derek chanced a peek through the mostly shattered windows.  
The men were approaching again in their V formation.  
He stood up and shot four more, again missing as the mutants dodged out of the way.

The men were retreating, running towards the mouth of the alley, the one at the end of the road that was their only chance of freedom, farther than Derek could track.

They were in possibly the worst defensive position. One straight road, buildings on both sides. No alleys. There was a intersection, but it was just beyond their attackers.

There was the sound of an engine, approaching fast. Derek looked around the back bumper. A massive, SWAT type van was coming towards them. 

“You’re going to run to left and get behind them. In the intersection, there'll be places to hide. Alleyways, side streets. I’m going to make a distraction-”

Derek squatted back down, but they weren’t gone.  
“They have a tank. You have a gun with four bullets left. I have a knife. None of this makes sense and now you want to go wage a one man war against a firing squad?” Stiles asked, though his heart was beating impossibly fast and even over the gunpowder and smoke Derek could smell his fear. His eyes were bleeding from amber to ice, like blood in water. Stiles was hurt but it was a mixture of shock and adrenaline that he was still able to function without feeling the pain. “And if you get hit, you’re not just going to heal and keep walking. You’re going to die-”

As the hitmen’s van was crossing the intersection, another smaller van hit the side of it, pushing it out of the way.  
Then the van backed up, hood almost completely destroyed, and rammed again, before backing up, driving towards Derek backwards. Their back end hit the brick wall of the opposite building, where it sat, smoking and dilapidated, about twenty or so feet from the Mercedes, on the other side. The road separating them.   
Their back up.   
Erica and Boyd tumbled out of the driver’s side door, before taking positions at the front bumper, peaking around with their guns.  
“You’re all crazy,” Stiles said a little breathlessly, crouching to look at the betas through the glass.

Derek grabbed his shoulder, forcing him lower. There was a man getting out of the van, something in his fist. Derek recognized the motion he made, before throwing the object.  
It soared past Erica and Boyd, where they were already shooting round after round at the men. It bounced and rolled under the trunk of the Mercedes, before being spit back out in front of Derek's feet.   
There was a disconnect from fear. Maybe from the way his wolf was snarling. Maybe it was from the sound of Stiles’ heartbeat, hammering against his chest. The smell of his electric fear.  
But he had no second thoughts. Because hesitation equaled death.  
So as Stiles said, “Holy shit. Grenade-” Derek was diving for it and throwing it towards their attackers without any hesitation. Of course it didn’t reach them, but it also didn’t blow up in his face so there was that.  
It went off in the air, somewhere above and a couple feet past Erica and Boyd, creating a plume of smoke that Derek could only hope wasn’t wolfsbane or mountain ash infused.

He could smell the electricity in the air. Like the sharp tang of ozone right before lightning struck.  
Derek crouched back down. He had three rounds left- if Erica and Boyd could get to the artillery in the van, they could really do some damage

Stiles was watching him. His eyes changed to their pale blue. The air was growing colder, wind ripping at their clothes. The chill clawing through their skin.  
Derek was formulating a plan. Trying to find a solution where Stiles wasn't killed.  
There were more gunshots. “Stay down. More back up should be coming.” Judging by the damage the van had already taken, Erica and Boyd had been attacked too. Which meant Isaac and Jackson were most likely in a similar position. If his other betas could come, it’d give Derek an opportunity to get Stiles away. The only problem was the method of getting out of there-

The sky, which had been clear, clouded over.

Derek jumped up again, firing a round into the leg of an attacker. It didn’t faze him, he kept coming, only instead of aiming for Erica, he swung his gun to get Derek. The alpha dropped back down.   
Another explosion.  
Erica and Boyd were shouting. Firing off rounds into the cloud of smoke their enemies lurked in. Erica was holding her side, and Boyd was doing the same. The pain they shared didn’t stop their torrent of bullets.  
There was the crackling of static in his ear piece.  
Rain started pouring down. Freezing water, too cold for it be completely natural.

"We’re going to run back the way we came, climb through the debris. Erica and Boyd should be able to handle it until the others get here.” He didn’t say ‘if’. Derek was turning to look down at Stiles.

“We’d never make it,” he said. His voice wasn’t his- it was low and even. Derek scented the chemosignals in the air, over Stiles’ stress and anxiety, there was something else.  
Lightning.  
It smelled like a storm.

Stiles’ heart beat suddenly evened out, slowing down and becoming as steady as a bass drum and Derek turned sharply to stare at him, thinking Stiles was currently losing consciousness. But he was not.   
Or rather, a part of him was.

Stiles’ aura, the boy without an aura, had gained a cloud of black. It surrounded him like smoke. He inhaled, exhaled, breathing it in. 

His face was a little too pale, eyes a little too dark. Black veins spider webbed from the corners of his eyes, traveling past his lips and jaw, down his neck.

The air was freezing and the water soaked their clothes. But Stiles looked immune to the cold. 

He stared back at Derek, eyes a piercing blue. Unnaturally cold, like ice.   
They faded to charcoal.  
Then to black.

His movements changed. They were too sure- he was like a rabid animal. The only movements made were completely necessary and calculated. No fidgeting or hesitation. Completely sure.  
He tilted his head to the side like a predator listening for its prey. He shifted like his skin didn’t fit, like it was something else of greater mass shoved into Stiles’ body and it was shifting and adjusting uncomfortably, trying to break out of the prison that served as Stiles’ body.  
It was, above all, most obvious in the eyes. Stiles’ eye changing color from warm honey to ice wasn’t uncommon. But it was uncommon for the pure malice and power to be reflected in them, they were black. Dark and cruel, like the reflection of a full moon in a murky pond. It filled Derek with dread. Because he knew it wasn’t Stiles- knew if he were to call out to him, he wouldn’t answer.   
Because that wasn’t Stiles.   
So Derek kept his mouth shut, fearing the inevitable moment where the creature standing in front of him didn’t recognize his own name. And that cut Derek deeper than anything.

Swarms of bugs emerged from the sewers, from cracks in the pavement, from the subway grates. Thousands of flying insects, the most jarring being fireflies, flew past Stiles. A sea of angry, yellow light circled the hitmen down the street.

There were screams in the distance. Not from his betas.  
He took his eyes off Stiles to look over the car. There were four men, another on the ground and even through the haze of rain, Derek could see the blue tinge in their faces and necks. They were ripping at their clothes, screaming. Blood dripped from their eyes and ears and nose, immediately freezing against their skin. Fern patterns of white frost overtaking their blue and frozen faces.  
"I don't know what's happening but let's use this opportunity to-"  
Stiles, with his back to the door, was sliding to sit on the asphalt. His nose was bleeding.  
Derek crouched in front of him. "Stiles?" He was unresponsive, staring forward with grey eyes, pin prick pupils. Body trembling. His skin was losing the blue tinge, being replaced by a sickly pale that even his regular light skin didn’t match.  
The rain was stopping but the cold remained.  
“Answer me, damn it!” Derek put his hand to Stiles’ neck. The pulse was light and fluttery.  
Stiles didn't react to the touch.  
He vaguely registered the sound of a heavy vehicle speeding away. Most likely the last guy noped the fuck out of there.

His black clothing wet, torn, and disheveled, smelling of unseen blood. His face had several minor cuts, from the windows shattering, his nose bleeding.

“Jackson, Isaac- talk if you’re still alive.”  
There was the sound of static crackling, then- “We’re still here. On the way to you now.”  
Derek dropped his hand from his ear, then crouched back down. He put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, moving up to his jaw. His pulse thumped against his fingers and in his ears.  
Derek slid his hand from Stiles' jaw to his neck, fingertips jammed under his collar. He took the pain he found there.

“What are you?” Derek said under his breath, so quiet only the cold and wet street could hear him.

He heard the rushing of footsteps, knowing the heartbeat and smell before looking up. Erica was rounding the overturned Mercedes, wolf-shifted face frozen in confusion.  
"Is he OK?"  
He looked from Stiles’ face to that of his beta. "I don't know."

She bent down to touch Stiles, next to Derek. Erica clutched at his shoulder, then moved her hand up, towards his neck.  
His wolf was sitting up, ears drawn back. An incessant huffing; like a whine that didn't quite make it. It was digging at something. Digging at annoyance.

 

 

Stiles hair was down in that way that made him look his age. Young and vulnerable. His jacket was ruined, from the rain and glass that had shattered, as was his black button down with blood around the collar and splattered randomly. His dark, skinny suit pants were cut in random places. Deaton had said none of the cuts would need stitches. There was a towel around his shoulders. He’d stopped trembling once they were in the warmth of the vet’s office.

Deaton handed Stiles a vile, filled with a black sludge looking liquid. “Drink it.”  
“Doesn’t look so bad.” Stiles lifted the vial to his nose and took a breath in, pulling away at once to gag and pull a face. “I was wrong. Deaton, what’s in this?”  
“Ingredients for pain management and energy depletion. Ginseng, from traditional Korean medicine, provides strength. Clover, sacred to Druids. Among other things.”  
Stiles lifted the vial to his lips and muttered, “’Among other things’, he says.” He swallowed the contents in one go and comedically gagged. “Do you even try to make this stuff taste better?”  
“No,” Deaton said simply.

Healers were considered holistic and homeopathic. I.e. they didn’t work.

They were in the east side, at Deaton’s vet clinic. Jackson and Boyd were with the wrecked Mercedes and the Escalade, and the possessions within, securing new rides, waiting for Tantum members to clean up the mess. The magic utility chest in the van was OK, as was all the tech, much to Boyd’s relief.  
Stiles had been unresponsive on the drive over. Only when they got out of the security van did he start to blink again and lazily ask, ‘what happened?’

Deaton put his hand on Stiles’ jaw and moved his head from side to side. “I myself just got back from the airport less than an hour ago from dropping Peter off.”

“Nothing in your neck is fractured,” Deaton said, hands on either side of Stiles’ face, swiveling his neck. Stiles winced. “Just deeply bruised. Concussion?”   
“Didn’t hit my head, I’m fine.”  
“Don’t listen to him,” Derek said, ignoring Stiles.  
“Not even the airbag?” Deaton asked.  
“Mr. Strong-Arm stopped it.”  
“Impressive reflexes.”

Deaton pressed Stiles’ side with the flat of his palm. He hissed through his teeth, body arching away from the vet’s touch. “Bruised ribs,” Deaton concluded.   
Derek knew as much. He couldn’t hear the creaking ship that was a broken bone. But he could taste the excess blood, could hear Stiles’ breath catch every time his ribs expanded.  
“He needs ice and compression. And sleep. But good luck trying to get him to do any of that.”

“If the bullets were enchanted, it’s a miracle none of you were hit.” He passed a sterile cotton swab over the cuts on Stiles’ face. “But we don’t believe in miracles here, do we, Stiles?”  
Stiles mumbled, turning away from the stinging ointment on the swab. It smelled of eucalyptus and chemicals.  
“No, not a miracle. But your skill,” Deaton finished, looking at Derek. He put a butterfly bandaged on the deepest cut, on Stiles’ cheek. Deaton shook his head. “Maybe if you’d actually keep a gun. All those years of training, wasted.”

 

“Here. Two every four hours for the next couple of days,” Deaton said, pressing a brown, glass bottle of pills into Derek’s hand. “Make sure he rests. How are you feeling?” Deaton asked. But there was something in his eyes, like he wasn’t just talking about the physical pain.  
Stiles rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Heads on fire. Still feel like I’m spilling. And I’m so tired.”  
Deaton nodded, touching the sides of Stiles’ face, noting his grey eyes. “Things come and go. Magic is funny sometimes, since it’s tied up with your own energy. Almost anything around or inside you could affect it.” He sighed. “Build up, release, recovery. If one of these steps is skipped, everything goes poorly, you know that. Your power is special, but it can also be damaging.”  
No magic was without cost, that’s what his mother would say. “There's a rebound, on you,” Derek said. “What you did back there, the power invoked, there are consequences.”  
“There is a give and take, oftentimes negative or unpredictable.”  
That other person Stiles had become…  
“I don’t remember what happened. I blacked out. Again,” Stiles said, defeated.  
Derek didn’t mention it. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was because it would scare Stiles, to know he’d been another person as he used his mysterious power.  
“Stiles will be tired. And most likely out of it for the next day or so. He always is… after he expends so much magic.”  
“Is anyone going to address the big ass elephant in the room? What the actual fuck just happened?” Erica asked, leaning against one of the counters, arms crossed. “So you killed them. Magicked them to death. So what does this make you? A witch?"   
"Oh my fuck- how many times-” Stiles shook his head. “I’m not a witch.”  
“So what are you?”  
Stiles’ mouth hung open, before he said, "That is deeply personal-"  
"If we'll be protecting your unstable ass, I at least want to know what to watch out for."  
"'Unstable' is a strong word. And for your information, I'm a nymph."  
She paused, only long enough for the shock to settle in, before saying, “So that’d make you a satyr.”  
“Do you see a pair of faun legs?” Stiles’ cheeks were flushing.  
"But you’re definitely not female-"  
"That is sexist and archaic thinking. But you're right. Has something to do with me not supposed to be born in the first place?"  
“What- like you were a birth control baby? Broken condom baby?” Isaac asked.  
Deaton gave them a look like 'you're really not helping here'. "Claudia couldn’t get pregnant. Most likely because John was human. So she came to me for help. I had possessed knowledge and I was able to help them. Stiles was born of magic. He has no human blood, though John was his father.” At the looks of confusion he got in return, Deaton said, “I would ask you to suspend your disbelief for a moment. Stiles is a male nymph, stronger than his mother before him.”  
"But wouldn't that make you half human? If John was your father. As in weaker than your mom?" Erica asked.  
"It's more complicated than that. Stiles is different,” Deaton said, handing Stiles another vile, this time will a bright green liquid.  
"Clearly," Isaac said with an edge. He wasn’t just talking about Stiles’ mutation.  
“Claudia was one of the most powerful nymphs of this world,” Deaton answered, looking wistful. “She was a goddess of the earth.”  
"An earth goddess? Your mother was an earth goddess?” He asked in disbelief.  
"Not really but it you want to use archaic terminology and fables/ mythology, then yeah."  
"How did some mundies manage to kill her?" He asked. Erica promptly elbowed him in the ribs.  
"Being an 'earth goddess' doesn't do too much against a hail of bullets," Stiles answered, not sounding too upset by Isaac's question.  
Deaton was looking away, not listening.

“When he turns eighteen, he will not only be eligible to step down from succession, but his powers will ellipse and stabilize, during the Choosing. We'll find out what type he is then. Because for the last seventeen years, it's been a seesaw of power. Of magical types."  
“That's not normal?"  
"No. Each nymph has a specific natural site-or phenomenon- that they control. There are about fifteen known types. Stiles has displayed ten of those types. In six months, he'll manifest as one."  
"Then why doesn't he have green hair or whatever? If he's a nymph."  
"That's an inherited trait. Just like his mom, his physical mutations only manifest when he's actively using his powers. When he was younger, his hair would change colors. But now, it's predominantly his eyes and hands."  
"So what happened to those guys? What'd you do to them?" Erica asked.  
"To put it simply, he cursed them," Deaton explained.  
"You- cursed them?"  
Stiles shrugged. "I can't control it. Those guys died, but with Violet and Garrett, nothing happened."  
"In the future, would it be possible to control it?" Derek asked, looking at Deaton.  
The vet placed his hands on the edge of the metal table. "If Claudia was here, I would say yes. But because she, and almost certainly the rest of the nymphs, are gone, I’m relying on instinct. He is the last of his kind."  
"That's really inconvenient," Isaac mumbled.  
"You're telling me. I almost killed a janitor when I was still in school because he torched a bee hive,” Stiles said, scratching at a cut on his arm.  
“’Nature never did betray a heart that loved her’,” Deaton said absently. “You can think of it as a survival mechanism. Stiles’ power sometimes takes over to protect him. Or when it’s a high stress situation.”

After the funeral, Stiles had been dangerously close to giving into the powers of his nymph. The storm, the duress from the panic attack, the way his hands had changed to a light blue-

Stiles was a pureblood Class X, made from Old World magic. To be a being of the Old World was a rare thing. To have never lived through it and still be made of Old World magic was even rarer.

“His abilities are far reaching. He can even project his feelings. Mostly in his sleep.”  
“Yeah, we know,” Erica said.  
Stiles paused, then shut his eyes. “Wait a second. Have I been messing with you guys?”  
“Only a little bit,” Isaac said.  
Erica scoffed. “You mean ‘a lot a bit’.”  
Stiles looked to Derek. “I can’t believe you’re masochistic enough to sleep in the same room as me.”  
“I’d be able to tell how you were feeling, regardless, based on your scent.”  
Stiles’ face animated his disgust. “Don’t say that, it’s weird.”

“I apologize for not informing you sooner of Stiles’ mutation. I feared that, knowing what he was, you wouldn’t accept the contract,” Deaton said.  
Derek didn’t disagree. Though omission was just as good as lying when it came to violating terms of the contract, which this definitely was.  
But Derek didn’t back down.  
He liked a challenge.

“Isaac, Boyd and Jackson are on their way back. Meet them outside.”  
Isaac nodded and promptly exited the clinic to wait.

"Our guys in the police department are handling the scenes. We have sway in the media too, so it's going to be OK. Gas leak, of some kind,” Stiles explained, though his speech was slurring just the slightest bit.  
"I'm having Scott retrieve the bodies," Deaton said.  
"You're not having the Argents' guys take care of them?" Erica asked. “Waste Disposal?”  
"No, I wanted to conduct my own investigation. But I did have them take care of the other damage. Wouldn't want the police getting in it. And I gave Parrish a call and he's taking care of the story. And I didn't want the Argents to have them."  
"Why is that exactly?" It was a valid question; they were the professional clean up and investigative service for bodies.  
Deaton took a breath in through his nose, lips pursed. "There's something I've been- ignoring, if I'm being perfectly honest."  
"What is it?" Stiles asked. His heartbeat sped up.   
"John had mentioned the possibility of a mole weeks before you were abducted. But the way he said it made it seem like a boss' paranoia. And it was an oversight on my part. Maybe if I would have taken his hunch seriously… It’s too much of a coincidence that on the day of the first meeting, you’re attacked leaving the office."  
Derek recognized the look Stiles had. The smell. Something earthy. Like rusted iron in a garden Something sharp.  
Stiles knew, even if he hadn’t said anything. To Deaton, or even admitted it himself. He knew that the ones responsible for his pain had most likely been in that meeting.

“Your kidnapping- John’s murder… It was an inside job. I’ve looked at it from every angle. The only ones capable are someone in-syndicate. Whether that be Tantum or someone in an Argent subgroup. There was speculation that it was mundanes or some new muttie competition. It couldn’t have been. Too much was known,” Deaton said.

The mole Deaton was talking about was in the syndicate. It wasn’t some outsider that had kidnapped Stiles and killed John. Someone in Tantum, maybe in a sub group. Maybe in a main group.  
Maybe one of the other heads.

The kid was world’s away from the conversation. Plotting his next attempt at ninja-ing his way out of the window, no doubt. Fuck, the kid was a master in self-destruction.

“What about the phones at Tantum? Could they be tapped?”  
Deaton shook his head. “John took precautions against that. People check every day- different people.”

“Then you knew… One of the deciding factors for hiring us. It’s not that you didn’t want one of Stiles’ subordinates to die: it’s that you didn’t know if they’d be the one to actually kill Stiles.”  
It meant the mole most likely wasn’t just some small dealer in the Argent group who was syphoning information. It meant they were potentially in Tantum itself. Maybe working in the building.

They’d already suspected someone in one of the groups wanted Stiles dead now that he was head. But to have orchestrated John’s death… It had looked like an outside party, Stiles’ kidnapping. Some idiots trying to hold the boss’ son for ransom, looking to score big. And John was killed in a deal that went south.  
But it was so much beyond that.

Derek understood why Stiles was shutting that part of himself off. And pretending he didn’t remember anything. It was easier for a thought to pop up and block it out- Derek’s favorite method was starting a song in his head when a thought he didn’t want to deal with came up. It felt better to ignore and destroy those memories, but this pain demanded to be felt, no matter how painful. Only problem was, if Stiles never talked about it, the finer details, if there were any, would fade away, and with it potentially vital information.   
Talking aloud triggered memory centers in the brain. And even with the failure of eyewitness testimony, the chance of awakening some crucial bit of information was still likely.

“It was suspicious to me as well.”  
“You think one of them was staging a coup, even before Stiles was taken and John was shot?”  
“It’s possible.”  
"Then who was really behind John's death? We both know thugs like that don't set their own agendas and up and kidnap a crime boss' son by themselves."  
"We've had a team of our people working on it but so far- nothing. They're ghosts." Deaton crossed his arms; he looked worn out. “The bodies are being taken care of and collected. I’ll leave exanimation for the morning. They’ll need to thaw out first, you understand.”

 

“My team and I can help.”

They’d been cleared of suspicion in leaking information. His team had been in Mexico during the incident with John.

“There’s no need. This is an internal matter-”  
“Having a leak is a security risk. And there’s someone out there with a dampener specifically made for Stiles. We’ll help you. You can’t put a fire out from inside the house.”  
"My other point is that I think it’s safe to assume whoever sent this squad of hit men were at the meeting. It’s too much of a coincidence that you’re attacked only hours after a group of people that are possibly gunning for you all meet in one place.”  
“It’d make sense- they can’t find where Stiles is staying. So call a meeting, to make sure he’s at the office, and then wait for whenever he leaves. They attacked all of our vehicles- because they didn’t know which one he was in.”  
"That's not exactly narrowing it down. Even Peter came," Erica said.  
Derek suppressed a groan. "It's a good place to start."  
"We can at least take Peter out of the pool of suspects, right?"  
Derek remained silent, arms crossed.   
"Come on, Derek. He's a creepy asshole but would he do this...?"  
"My uncle would do anything for power."  
"Power as in killing you for alpha or killing Stiles via hit men and having a shot at the head seat in some way or another?"  
"Whichever. Both. I don't know. But something about him coming here for a day, when he's been in Japan, it just- doesn't feel right. I don't believe in coincidences."

Derek glanced at his phone screen. "Jackson will be here in less than two minutes. Take Stiles outside," he ordered.  
"Nah, I'll stay here until they get here," Stiles said.  
Erica stood behind him, placing hands on each of his shoulders, understanding Derek's alpha tone more than Stiles. I want to have a word alone with Deaton. "Come along now. The grown ups are talking."  
"I take offense to your condescending tone."  
"You should."   
Erica led him away with a hand planted firmly between his shoulder blades. She briefly turned to say, "We'll meet you outside," before exiting the room.

 

“Why don’t you teach him to control his power? Through spells? I’ve seen you practice, you’re good enough to help him.”  
“It’s not about whether or not I’m good enough. Stiles is… I’ve tried teaching him. But he can’t control his power. To directly try and channel it through incantations is no small thing. It’s like trying to shove the ocean through a thin, glass tube. When he’s 18, he may be able to use magic like the best of witches. But for now, he must stay away from it. Especially deliberately using it, through spells.”  
“Was that Stiles channeling his power, back there with the hitmen?”  
“It’s like a feedback loop. Like holding an electric guitar up to an amplifier until it screeches. Except Stiles’ body is the amplifier and the magic’s the guitar. Not every time are there devastating consequences. But often enough. That’s why he gets nosebleeds and headaches.”

It was Stiles’ nerves that were screaming as his nose started to bleed. Even the most powerful amp would blow a tube under that kind of pressure, or in the case of Stiles’ body, rupture a membrane.

“As for the dampener you mentioned… There’s a lot that goes into making a dampener work on Stiles. Because the nature and extent of his power is unknown, as well as the aspect of control, the amount and ingredients are extremely varied from your typical dampener. I have to make his dampeners myself because while he needs a massive and concentrated dose, and at that level, an overdose would be easy- especially for someone who is playing at guesswork. Specific height and weight measurements, a blood sample, and at least a modicum of knowledge of his mutation.”  
“And somehow, his kidnappers had used dampeners that successfully blocked all of his power, while not killing him or putting him in a coma. What are the chances they knew his mutation?”  
“Low. And Stiles won’t talk to me and is successfully trying to repress whatever memory he has that could possibly point to answer that question definitely.”

"What are you thinking, Derek?" Deaton asked, when everyone was gone. Just the vet, the alpha, and the animals.  
“Anyone who makes drugs, or dampeners- they have a signature, for the most part, right? Or a style?”  
“Yes, in a sense. Each chemist has variations. Patterns. Distinct choices, sometimes.”  
“Could you distinguish between styles? Let’s say, out of all the biggest chemists in New York.”  
“You want me to find the mole by finding who made the dampeners given to Stiles?”  
“It would be a start. Is it possible?”  
“I took a blood sample months ago but it had already been three days. Over half of the original chemicals had already been broken down and metabolized.”  
“But you could still do it?”  
Deaton ruminated. “Possibly. Maybe. It may take some guess work, but I can take another look.” He walked to a cabinet and searched through various bottles. “He’s unstable. Prone to outbursts, as I’m sure you’ve figured out by now."  
“At the funeral. The storms. The tech cutting in and out. His projecting.”  
“Yes. It will keep happening. And it will get worse.” Deaton found the right bottle and shut the door, before walking back to Derek. “Stiles, has he… lost time? Or went into a fugue-like state? Has he become something unlike himself?”

Stiles had been a completely different person during the attack. He’d had an aura. Black.   
Whatever that was, standing there, hadn’t been Stiles. 

Derek didn’t know why but he lied. “No.”  
“Well, you’ll know it when you see it.”  
“Will it stop after his birthday? When his power stabilizes?”  
Something in Deaton’s heart stuttered. Derek knew he wasn’t lying, but he wasn’t telling Derek the whole truth. It had to do with Stiles’ birthday, Derek knew that much. Deaton’s heart had wavered when he spoke about that too. “I can only hope. But until then, hope is not enough.” Deaton handed Derek another unmarked bottle, with white capsules. “If he has an outburst, or a panic attack. If he loses control- he could hurt any of you- he could hurt himself.”  
Derek understood. But he wasn’t happy. “So you want me to drug him if he has an episode.”  
Deaton nodded, face set in a hard line. “They’re safe. I made them myself. It’s a suppressor with a mild sedative, fast acting too. Stop the panic and stop the powers. He has his own supply, though I know he doesn’t take them. I’ve been giving him them since his early teens- though getting him to take them willingly is a challenge. Especially if he’s escalating to the point of a starting a hurricane.”  
Derek stared at him. “Could he actually do that?”  
“Maybe. For now at least- I don’t know. And I’d rather not find out. The powder in the capsules is tasteless and water soluble. It’s better if he doesn’t suspect you have them, so be cautious with it.”  
Derek looked at the bottle. The pills inside. Could he really drug Stiles? Even if he was dangerous? Derek knew the answer, even if he wasn't completely willing to accept it.  
“Derek- this is for his own good. He could be a danger to himself, not just you and your pack.”

Derek put the bottle in his coat pocket. 

 

 

 

After using magic, there was a high. It wasn’t like drugs or alcohol, where it dulled your senses and made things spiral from your control. It was adrenaline charged pleasure and an awakening of all five senses. It made the user feel alive for those few hours after the spell. The scientific term was endorphins, or as Stiles liked to call it, the high without the drugs. Of course, that wasn’t the case with all spells. Some took a few years off his life. Others left him dizzy. Some knocked him out cold. And a good handful always had some sort of kick to them.   
He used to practice spells with his mother. Little things. That’s how he learned how to revive plants. But it usually ended in disaster. It was the same when Deaton tried to coach him years later- his power would explode f he forced it by using an incantation. Things blew up, caught on fire-  
Yeah, Stiles wasn’t made to use spells.  
But magic? Oh, he used magic all the time.

Stiles was powerful enough to use spells. But that was the problem; power.   
He had too much of it. His lack of control, his lack of ability to conscious tap into his powers made using any type of ‘controlled’ magic like incantations dangerous.  
Deaton said magic and power were like a faucet in your body. Your use the dial to change the output. Only, Stiles’ didn’t have a dial. He had an ‘on’ or ‘off’ switch. Either too much or too little, no in between.

Jackson handed him his messenger bag. Stiles checked the contents, everything was OK. Even his laptop.  
Stiles nodded to him.

Channeling his father’s cadence, he thought, ‘Take a breath, spit out the blood in your mouth, and get back up on your feet. You still got a couple motherfuckers to prove wrong.’. His dad used to say that when he came home crying from school. It had been comforting, then.

Erica was leaning against the brick of the clinic, arms crossed lazily over her chest. Her fitted suit jacket was gone somewhere (probably destroyed) leaving her in a blood splattered, white button down. Not unlike Stiles'. “You know, if the government found out that there was a nymph still alive-”  
“The government won’t find out.”  
“Because you’re registered as an unlisted, right?”  
Stiles rubbed his midsection, the pain from his ribs radiated everywhere. “Right.”  
“You could just say you’re a warlock. Less suspicion that way. Everyone knows unlisteds are hiding something."  
"First, I’m not doing that. Second, even if I did, it'd be witch. It's like ADHD versus ADD. They used to be separate but ADD is just an antiquated term. Just like warlock versus witch, the only thing that had been separating them was gender. So having two terms was pointless."   
She was smiling a Cheshire grin. "So not a warlock on your registration. You'd be a witch."  
"I'm going to set off an Axe bomb in your room."  
Boyd looked at him. "Don't do that to me, man. Your beef is with her."  
"Thanks, dear Vernon, for sticking by your beloved," Erica said between gritted teeth. She put an arm around his shoulder with some extra werewolf strength, squeezing in a faux-loving way. He took it like a champ.

Deaton had been the one to prompt the delay in telling Derek and the pack about him being a nymph, citing his Class X status would complicate things. But that even sounded like a weak excuse to Stiles.   
He hadn’t wanted to tell them, too.   
The situation was complicated, more complicated than Derek or the betas knew. And it wasn’t something Stiles was ready to deal with, not now. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

“Wait-your name is Vernon? Oh my god.”  
“Your first name is so embarrassing you have to go by a shortened version of your last name and you have the gall to make fun of my name, Stilinski?”  
“Do you remember what happened?” Erica asked, elbowing Boyd.  
“It’s like remembering a movie you watched once as a kid. There are disconnecting, inconsecutive pieces.”

 

 

Derek didn't quite remember what it felt like to actually feel but there was an echo in his chest that he thought might be curiosity. Or maybe just teased frustration. Or maybe his brain had been twisted by that intoxicating and fiery scent. 

Jackson shook his head. “I still can’t believe you’re a first generation Class X.”  
Stiles snorted. “What? You thought I was some harmless, third generation A?”  
Jackson turned to the side and said ‘maybe’ under his breath.

Derek paused at the back door of the clinic, just listening to the pack and Stiles talk.

"At the beginning of time-"Stiles started in an overly dramatic voice, to show how little he thought of the tale "-there was nothing but the yawning void of Chaos- with a Capital 'C', because he's- they? Can I gender a void? Whatever. He's important. From Chaos came Gaia, the earth; Tartarus, the place below the earth; and Eros, the god of love. Then came Night, Day, and Erebus, the dark light of Tartarus. Gaia gave birth to Uranus- I'm not even going to say it the other way because that form of witticism is below me- who was the sky. And then mountains and the sea. She married Uranus because fuck the concept of incest at this point and their children were the Hundred Hands, the Cyclopes, and the Titans. This next part is a fabulous idea of why inbreeding is bad. Uranus hated and feared his Titan children. As each one was born, he kept them locked away in deep in Tartarus, so that they could never see daylight. Gaia wanted to save them. They were messed up but hey, they were still her kids. She made a sickle and gave it to Cronus, the youngest and most terrible Titan, who then ambushed his father. Cronus surprise attacked him and defeated him. As Uranus' substance dripped down to earth, it created the Giants, the Furies, and the Nymphs, and Aphrodite."  
Isaac nodded. "You're right; that sounds completely believable."  
"Yeah, especially the part where you're made from Uranus' substance," Erica said, pronouncing as ‘ur-anus’.

Derek stepped out of the door and joined the group.

Boyd was no longer holding his side, but there was blood on top of the healed wound.  
Stiles just gripped his own aching side and said, “That’s so unfair.”

"Have you ever had the witch's council after you? Considering all the shit you do? They have ways to track the shit you do," Erica asked.  
Stiles didn't try to hide his annoyance. "I'm more likely to have the Order of the Druids after me. And not a witch."

“So, Mr. X Class…Mutational heterochromia. It’s not uncommon. You have a form of it.”  
"Most mythological creatures are, supposedly, from the sea. If lore is to be believed," Stiles said, ignoring Isaac’s comment about his eyes.  
"Seriously?"  
"Yeah, a lot of Nereids once upon a time, before pollution became a thing. Those were the sea nymphs. Like Thetis, the mother of Achilles’ gay ass."  
Derek raised an eyebrow but didn't comment on 'Achilles’ gay ass'. "So that includes your mom."  
"No, she was a Hamadryad."  
“So is it a myth that nymphs are immortal?” Erica asked.  
"Eh, I'm not technically immortal. It's more of a longevity thing. Like I won't die from natural causes but a knife would do me in."  
"But you could potentially live forever?"  
"As long as it's a very peaceful forever. And if I don't become a Hamadryad when I turn eighteen. I'd really rather not have my fate tied to a tree."  
"How old was your mom?"  
"I don't actually know but I remember her telling me about Stonehenge being built and the ley lines they’re on."  
"Holy shit. She was a cougar."  
“Time’s up. Let’s go,” Derek said, before the banter could continue.

 

 

Stiles lived with every sort of secret. His first secret was himself. He was brother to a wolf, son of a dream and son of a dreamer. He was a warring star full of endless possibilities, but in the end, as he dreamt in the backseat on the way to the safe house that night, he created only this: let all of them sleep through the night.

 

 

Derek drove the rental BMW as Stiles nodded off in the backseat, covered in injuries. He let the information he’d just learned sink in as he looked in the rearview to catch the sight of Stiles’ drooping head in passing streetlights.

Derek understood why Stiles was able to figure him out so quickly that first time, with Derek losing control. Why he’d been able to peg him so quickly- because Stiles was going through the exact same thing.

 

Derek followed upstairs to make sure he wouldn’t pass out while he was getting undressed and ready for a shower.

Stiles scowled, not necessarily at Derek- just in his general direction. Stiles was grateful for the incremental pain leeches and first aid administration in general, but he believed that he didn’t need Derek to do it, he could do it himself. And Derek didn’t really care how he felt.  
Derek, putting on his most neutral glare, despite finding it a bit amusing- not that Stiles was hurt (that part actually pissed him off) but because Stiles was such a stubborn little shit and that amused Derek greatly and pissed him off, equally.  
He’d treated many clients. A graze of a bullet wasn’t enough to send a seasoned mobster to the hospital, or the ‘underground, technically illegal’ hospitals mobsters often used instead, so it was one of the team in charge of first aid.   
And Derek had seen all kinds of reactions to pain. Crying, screaming, whining- which Stiles did a fair bit of, but he kind of had the right to. And when he did, it was more funny than annoying, considering he was just playing it up. Considering, he’d been through so much worse.   
Stiles’ reaction the majority of the time (especially when it came to things that weren’t just something to ‘walk off’), that stupidly human reaction of, ‘trust me, I can handle this, I’m fine, go away, leave me be to handle this myself, I don’t want you here to see this’ had to be the most frustrating. But Stiles had such a complex of ‘don’t worry about me, I’m fine. Always. Besides, there are bigger things to worry about’ so his reaction to physical injury wasn’t surprising. Annoying, yes. But Derek should’ve seen it coming. He just wished Stiles knew he himself was one of those ‘bigger things’ he should be worrying about. 

Stiles picked up his phone. No doubt to text his friends. "Scott is bugging out,” Stiles said. “I don’t even want to know how Altair and Konstant are reacting. I’m sure I’ll hear all about it tomorrow.”  
"Maybe keep it on the down low?"  
"Keep almost getting murdered on the down low? No way. And I only told a couple of people. Besides, anyone who’s in the business will know what happened. Three cars don’t just get laid to siege and then the news disappears.”  
"I don't really want to know what your version of 'a couple people' is."

Deaton trusted Derek enough to keep Stiles safe. And to continue keeping him safe, with his injuries.

There was always something different about Stiles. The nymph was just another piece of the puzzle. 

“Do you remember what happened?”  
“I know I killed those people.”  
“Didn’t say what you knew. What you do you remember?”  
“Try remembering a dream you had a week ago. Or what you did the night you were black out drunk. It’s like that. I try not to think about it too much.”

Stiles didn’t have an aura.  
But he did, earlier. With the hitmen.  
Stiles and his nymph weren’t connected, not like they should be, if Derek was picking up Deaton’s hidden meaning.  
Because the person standing there, in the street, was not Stiles.  
He had not felt pain. He was something that was not strictly flesh.

“I’ve- almost killed people before. But this is different.”  
“It was self-defense.”  
Stiles rubbed his eyes. “The cognitive dissonance, man. Everything gets so much more complicated when you can’t remember. And you can’t decide whether to give a shit or not.”

It was different with Garrett and Violet because Stiles hadn’t killed them.

“You did what you had to do.”  
“Those weren't- they weren't the first people I've ever killed. And I know they weren’t technically alive or whatever.”  
“I know,” Derek said.  
“So why don't I feel bad about it?”

Derek knew it was because Stiles wasn’t killing for himself. He was killing to protect. That’s what he figured, anyway. 

“They were going to kill you. And you have something that’s still rare in the underworld.”  
“What?”  
“You still value life. Today, during the meeting, you could have had that defector with debts killed. But you spared him.”  
“You don’t know if those men were going to kill me…” Stiles said, eyes downcast.  
“You’re right; I don’t. But I do know some things.”  
Stiles looked up at him.  
“They weren’t the first. And they won’t be the last. You have to accept that,” Derek said. Whether it’d be by his own hand- an enemy or assassin or his uncontrollable powers- whether he ordered the death or pulled the trigger, Stiles would kill again.

“It’s not that you’re bad at your job. It’s just that you know, you have people on the outside and the inside after me. This is just not in your favor.”

Stiles was even rarer, because he was born after the Razing but was still pureblood and made of Old World magic, even though he’d never lived in it. 

Peter was going to have a field day when his plane landed and he turned his phone back on, only to find out they had their first well organized, major (excluding Garrett and Violet) assassination attempt.

But was it strictly an assassination attempt?

By pulling Stiles out and not finishing immediately, Derek questioned the motive of the hit men. They could've just killed him inside the car. Was it a hostage situation they wanted?   
Unlikely. Kidnappers were supposed to make sure their victim was alive and all of their previous actions could have resulted in Stiles' death. And the fact that their getaway vehicle was far away, so they weren't going to drag him there, and they only sent the one guy first.   
Their aim was death.   
But why did they pull him out and not just kill him immediately? Instead, they waited long enough for Derek to rally forth.

He turned over thoughts of the mole. “Do you they know what you are?” Derek asked. ‘They’ being the mole.  
Stiles sucked at his bottom lip before shrugging. “I don’t know?” He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “Not for sure, anyway.”  
“I thought this was supposed to be your big secret, how could there even be a remote possibility of anyone knowing?”  
“It is. But I also get even more loose lipped when I’ve had a few drinks in me. And I know where this line of questioning is leading- I don’t think it’s my friends.”  
“The point of a mole is they’re on the inside-”  
“They aren’t involved,” Stiles interrupted. You really think my dad would knowingly let me hang out with people that could be potential threats? Yes, while everyone or everyone’s parents are involved with the syndicate, that also means thorough vetting.”  
It was simple to Derek. Who knew about Stiles being a nymph- and go from there. “Uh huh,” Derek said. He’d be conducting his own investigation, without Stiles’ biases.   
Stiles rolled his eyes. “And it’s not like I ever discuss intimate details about the business with them. Even Allison. I know it’s been a while since you were a teenager but we don’t just sit around talking about off shore accounts.”  
Stiles thanked Derek for saving his life and insulted his age in the same conversation.  
“Even Danny?”   
Danny was technically in the Argent group and Tantum- he was in a weird position. Which wasn’t too uncommon, for low ranking members to have duties for multiple groups.   
“I never discuss things with Danny. He wouldn’t know the things that we know the mole knows.”  
Derek just nodded.

 

He ordered Stiles to lay down after his shower but knew that Stiles would ultimately do whatever he wanted. He even offered to help Stiles get undressed because of his ribs, but even though Stiles wasn’t exactly self-conscious, having Derek help him get undressed was apparently too much for him. So Derek let him hurt himself more for the sake of preserving his fragile teenage dignity and was fully prepared to be back upstairs to leech pain later on. It was that or have to deal with Stiles’ self-imposed distance because he would be embarrassed and Derek wasn’t in the mood to deal with that.

He’d worry about assessing Stiles in the morning.

Derek bagged and threw away their clothes as Stiles stepped into the shower, spattered in the odd trickle of blood and holes from glass shards.

The betas were gathered in the kitchen like he’d ordered as Derek went back downstairs, after checking the security feeds and failsafes. He kept an ear open to Stiles upstairs.

He recapped with them and checked in. Everyone was fine.

“Does Peter- We’re not seriously considering Peter, right?”  
“He was in the meeting,” Derek said staunchly.  
“But he doesn’t know Stiles’ mutation, does he? And he’s been on a need to know basis for this contract. He couldn’t have orchestrated this.”  
As much as Derek hated to admit it… “You’re probably right.

“You know, I remember a murder. Back in Beacon Hills. But I didn’t know the details, like that it was Stiles’ mom,” Erica said, an edge in her voice.  
“You were too young to be paying attention,” Derek said, as some kind of consolation.  
“Stiles’ eulogy- he’d mentioned his mother’s murder being John’s motivator.” She shook her head. “A nymph taken out by what the police department had hailed as ‘a random act of mutant on mutant violence’. No wonder why Stiles is so fucked up…”

 

It was a wonder how he wasn’t a villain. He had every excuse.

A true villain, the men Derek was used to working for. The people teeming in the underworld. Stiles was not like those people. 

He had all the makings of a villain. A natural born mischief-maker, a fighter, a liar who wore an uncountable number of masks.  
He was dangerously adept, gifted with a supernatural talent for finding and orchestrating violence. And not on purpose.  
He was a loner surrounded by people.  
He’s what a religious man would call a sinner, what the law called a criminal.

Mother killed in a drive by, the same one that nearly killed him. A childhood spent in the criminal underground, only to have that same underground take his father.  
He lived in a world that was for humans. And they told him his kind was the worst of the worst.  
Bullied, kidnapped, tortured, orphaned-  
Robbed of a normal and happy life. Surrounded by calamity and tormented at every turn.

Role models? His mother, an enigmatic Old World nymph, gone by the time he was eight. His father, a well-meaning ex-cop gangster who paid for his greatest moment of courage when a bullet ripped through his head. His friends and teachers and companions. A mix of well-meaning criminals and other broken kids, bullies, and tormentors. At their best, the criminals were his playmates. At their worst, his teachers and peers were his persecutors, sowing violence and pain further into his bones.

And there was that wicked temper of his. One that he tried to hide behind sarcasm and too-sharp jabs. Tried to hide behind silence and clenched, scarred fists. But Derek could see it there, under the surface. You don’t go through a life of pain and tragedy without souvenirs. And Derek could recognize the anger. Different from his own but anger all the same.

He had every excuse in the world, and within him were the makings.   
But Stiles was no villain. And no victim.

There was something inside him, passed down from mythical mother, and from doomed father to son. Something tested by tragedy, tempered by a rocky conscience. Honed by his humanity, the only thing that held back the bloodthirsty thing within and forced it to serve him.   
Most of the time, anyway.

 

 

Stiles took more of Deaton’s pain killers and laid down to sleep. Less than an hour later, however, Derek heard him get out of bed and descend the stairs.

Derek had dragged a chair from the table into the kitchen and was picking glass out of the soles of his shoes, pitching them into the waste bin.

Stiles appeared in red joggers with two white stripes up each leg, paired with ridiculous octopus socks and a white t-shirt that looked normal, but upon closer inspection, there was a tiny black cat on hem.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”  
“Nah, I’m pain free. The meds Deaton gave me give a nice high if you just stay awake.”  
“Wow.”  
“I know, right?”   
Stiles rifled through the fridge and pulled out an old smoothie that looked like car wash drippings. Thinking better of it, he grabbed a Coke and gingerly hopped onto the counter across from Derek with a pained hiss.  
“Don't complain or come ask for my help when you hurt yourself more because I won't help.” Even though both of them knew that wasn't true- Derek would be spending the night monitoring his heart beat and leeching his pain so at least sleep could provide relief and if he was peacefully sleeping then he couldn't go and hurt himself more.

Stiles rubbed his throat, rubbed at the growing bruise there. “Damn. Always going for the throat. Almost choked me out.”  
Bruising a neck was easy, especially with skin as pale as Stiles’. A neck as thin and breakable as Stiles'.

Stiles lifted up his shirt and poked at his bruises on his chest, because that was the correct response to getting a bruise; poking it.  
"Don't do that."  
“Dude, if you’re doing that thing where you dwell on bruises and shit, I’m gonna to blow a gasket.” Stiles dropped his shirt. “You know, there are some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other. And near-death hit-men attacks is one of them.”  
“I’ve had plenty of other contracts where things like this have happened. I never ended up liking half my clients.”  
“Yeah, but I’m different.”  
His eyes raked over Stiles. You are.

“There are things you shouldn’t keep from me.”  
Stiles smiled over the edge of the can, then lowered it to say, “Oh my gosh- are you, perhaps, hurt? That I didn’t tell you?”  
“I would’ve found out sooner or later.” Derek pitched another piece of glass into the trashcan. “This is a long contract.”  
Stiles swung his legs out, grey eyes staring at the ground. “Yeah, I know that. I was just counting on it being ‘later’.”

The Hales stayed away from magic as much as possible for a reason. The feedback loop was too unpredictable to mess with. He had the ability to use spells, all ‘magical’ creatures did but spells were a last resort.

“Funny little irony they don’t tell you, magic doesn’t come from talent. It comes from pain,” Stiles said absently, staring into nothing.

Stiles doesn't have an aura. And neither did his mom. Derek didn’t know what that meant. No one knew what that mean.  
But he’d been a completely different person. He had an aura. Black. That wasn’t Stiles. Which meant Stiles’ nymph and Stiles aren’t connected. Not in the way they should be, if he is understanding Deaton correctly. Because that person standing there was not Stiles.

He should’ve seen the nymph reveal coming. He thought the mischievous disposition and constant energy and borderline mean jabs were the ADHD and tough cards life dealt Stiles but it was also his nymph instincts. Damn, the whole male bit must've been blocking his usually observant senses.  
And Derek didn’t want to stereotype, but nymphs were supposed to be flirtatious and sensual, which was Stiles to a T.

“Did you go to the storm trooper school of shooting?”  
Derek swatted at him and Stiles laughed weakly, because they both know it wasn’t his shooting ability, it was the hitmen’s too quick reflexes.  
“Every time you don’t do what you’re supposed to do or you coerce me into doing something against my better judgment, look what happens.”  
“Are you referring to letting me sit in the front seat?”  
“Never again.”  
“That really sucks for your Mercedes, though.”  
“I’ll be getting another one.” Jackson was coordinating the new cars, which would take time because they had to be armored. Deaton and the rest of the team were in charge of damage control with the wreckage. 

Stiles had fallen into silence, picking at the metal tab of the Coke can. But Derek wasn’t done with him. "You never told me what my aura was.”  
“Did you want to know?” Stiles asked, that shit eating grin melting onto his face. Great. Now he was going to use the Derek’s curiosity against him.  
“Maybe-”  
Erica entered the kitchen, cutting Derek off. "Wait, you can see auras?" She must’ve been eavesdropping from her and Boyd’s room.  
Stiles gave her a strange look. "Yeah, I thought you knew that?"  
"Uh, that'd be a no."  
"Well, Derek knew. I thought he'd share with you."  
"That might've actually helped me win. Thanks, Derek," Erica said.  
"Win what?" Stiles asked.  
"We wanted to know what you were and asking was too easy so..."  
Stiles nodded slowly to himself. "You had a bet? To see what my mutation was?"  
"If it's any consolation, none of us were right."  
"Actually," Derek crossed his arms, "I said you'd all be wrong. So I win."

Electing to ignore the winner of the bet, she said, “When you raged that first time, you could’ve been iced by Stiles.”  
Stiles shrugged. “Probably not. You weren’t really a threat.”  
Her eyes raked over Stiles. “You all right?”  
Stiles, not looking at Erica, said, “Always.” His heart beat barely even skipped, the lie was so rehearsed.  
She should have asked, ‘are you physically AND emotionally all right?’  
"And if you hadn't have soccer mom’d me, Derek, this would not have had the same outcome. I know I could’ve been hurt a lot worse.” Stiles yawned. “You’re going to have to get used to seeing me get hurt. It happens. And you were able to keep me alive, so stop it with the sulky expression.”

 

“You see, there’s this boy. He is broken and mouthy and cold. Most would call him unfeeling, cruel. Perhaps he truly is. But you see, there’s this boy. He is loyal, unpredictable, and true. He is honest. Genuine. Real.”


End file.
